A Box of Crayons
by cagd
Summary: This is my part of an ongoing shared series where the last half of Angel Season 5 never happened, Dawn goes back to L.A. to go to school, meets Connor, and gets pregnant. Buffy ends up raising the child.
1. Blue Violet: Human Remains

"Up until the 1940s, many believed that keeping an illegitimate child was a fitting punishment for the mother's sin and a warning to others." —Keith Griffith, _Adoption History and Reform in New Zealand_

"...the experience of illegitimates makes it clear just how crucial the relationship with the father was for children. Illegitimate children would invent a father figure if they could not have a real one, in part so that they could have an identity--a name--but also to feel wanted by both parents._ Illegitimacy in the English Working Class, 1850-1939_ Journal of Social History, Winter, 2003, by Ginger Frost

Why bastard? Wherefore base?  
When my dimensions are as well compact,  
My mind as generous, and my shape as true  
As honest madam's issue?

—Wm. Shakespeare, _King Lear_

* * *

**The Uninvited Guest**

Three days before Christmas, the doorbell rips you out of a sound sleep.

You sit up, automatically reaching for Sorcha in the bassinet by your bed, but your two month old niece is sound asleep, one tiny fist pressed up against her mouth.

The bell rings again, echoing through Giles' cavernous old house in St. John's Wood where you live whenever you aren't on Slayer duty.

_Who on earth could it be at this time of night?_

Annoyed, you pull on your bathrobe, shove your feet into your new slippers, (a goofy pair of bunny ones that Willow gave you as an early Christmas, no a late _Hanukah-Solstace_ gift) and pad down the front stairs.

The bell rings once more: long, loud and persistent.

_If it's an emergency, wouldn't the phone be ringing off the hook? Maybe it's some drunk come to the wrong house thinking he lives here._

You peek through the thick glass of the little window in the front door.

_Oh. My. God._

Spike's out there on the front steps with a small overnight bag at his feet and snow dusting his shoulders. There's a look on his face that tells you that if you say the wrong thing he'll run and that'll be the end of it.

You throw yourself back first against the door in a panic.

_Please God if you really exist like they told me you did in Sunday School back when I was little and that the devil was some guy in red underwear with a pitchfork and not someone I once slept with, please, please, not this!_

Whatever there had been between the two of you now lies dead on the bottom of a hole in the middle of the California desert where once there'd been a town.

When Angel told you about Spike's resurrection in one of his rambling techno-illiterate e-mails, you waited, curious, nervous, maybe a little frightened because the relationship between you, if you could call the tangled slow motion car crash of mutual self-loathing followed by the beginnings of an aborted forgiveness that you once shared a relationship, had been wrong from day one.

You don't want to go through that again.

Not that you would. Should Spike show up like he has now, maybe with open arms and a wicked glint in his blue eyes, promising you as much pleasure as pain, you'd...

...well, what _would, no, _what_ will _you do?

You and Angel are... let's just say that the two of you are mending things between you? Never mind that Angel didn't even come to Dawn's...

_Oh God, Dawnie!_

You've seen Spike twice since the End of Days. The second time was when he attended Dawn's funeral...no, you never saw Spike at the simple evening graveside service.

_Over the Watcher's Council's objections, you insisted upon an evening funeral so that Angel could attend. Only Angel never came. _

Just after sundown, while watching the agonizing parade of friends and colleagues walk past Dawnie's open casket where it dominated the middle of Giles' front parlor, you looked out the bay window and caught a shadowy glimpse of Spike loitering on the sidewalk across the street in the cold, damp October twilight as the street lamps began to flicker to life.

_At least you think it was Spike._

The man you thought might have been Spike wore a conservative black suit and tie beneath a black raincoat with the collar turned up. His eyes were two dark pits in his face above the unlit cigarette which protruded limply from the corner of the hard straight line that was his mouth and his tow colored hair hair hung lank across his forehead in the heavy drizzle. A bouquet of what looked like roadside weeds bound up with string dangled from one street lamp bleached black-nailed hand.

He disappeared in a brief whiff of tobacco smoke just as Dawn's white casket with its burden of flowers was carried down the front steps to the waiting hearse.

_Who are you kidding? It was Spike. You should have called out to him right then. You should have stopped him. You should have_..._ Not that you wanted to after what you witnessed back in L.A. in Eve's office. That was the first time you saw Spike after he came back and..._

What would you have said _had_ Spike crossed the street and walked up to you as you stood there within the lighted rectangle of Giles' front doorway, numbly clutching Sorcha to you beside a grieving red-eyed Willow and a bored, fidgety Kennedy, watching the pallbearers wrestle the casket down the worn and slippery concrete front stairs? Xander was staggering because he'd been drinking all day, Faith was cocooned in the same shockingly modest outfit that she had worn to Robin's funeral months earlier, along with four burly young men in black suits that the Watcher's Council had provided you with; unbelievably all six made it down the steps without spilling even so much as a loose rose petal before they slid your little sister's casket into the back of the hearse as the twilight drizzle turned into a frigid downpour?

Would you have thanked Spike for coming when Angel didn't? Or would you have angrily berated him for not calling, for not letting you know that he was alive again, instead of leaving it up to Angel to tell you? Would you have risked what little composure you had left to you that evening to ask Spike why of all people did it have to be Eve, the one Angel'd warned you about?

_Yes, why the Hell did it have to be Eve that you walked in on him with when you went back to L.A. to bring the barely showing Dawn back to London with you? Connor was all but glued to your sister - insisting loudly that he be allowed to come with Dawn to England because he was the father and good fathers always took care of their children and the women that they had them with. That's the way it was supposed to be and he wanted to do the right thing and take care of Dawn and his baby._

You almost laughed in Connor's thin, earnest face when he said this to you as he nervously clutched Dawn's delicate little hand in both of his unusually large ones. You, your mother, even Dawn, could have easily burst Connor's balloon had any of you felt like it. You didn't. Despite wanting very badly not to, you found that you liked this funny looking kid who made you think of an inverted mop with his skinny body and his bushy, badly cut ash brown hair. Jeepers, you honestly didn't want to hurt him even after he first hesitantly told you that he was Angel's son!

_By Darla of all people?_

Furious at having been lied to yet again, you went to confront Angel in his office.

_Too bad you opened the wrong office door. Eve was there on the edge of her desk desk, gartered thighs spread wide open and Spike was, Spike was... _

Harmony you could have understood but...Eve?

_Oh God, don't think about that, it's too upsetting._

After watching Dawn's casket being lowered into foreign soil, you found Spike's tie, a dark red silk one, neatly coiled up in your purse when you were paying the cab driver who dropped you and Sorcha off at Giles' empty, echoing house. You knew it was his because some scents you'll never forget.

_You sat there with the lights out in your bedroom on the chair that came with the antique gingerwood dressing table that Giles had given to you for your last birthday, Sorcha wailing unheeded in her bassinet, running the tie through your fingers, wishing that Giles wasn't still in the hospital recovering from the wounds that Ethan Rayne gave him when he tried to stop the son of a bitch from stealing your sister to save his own rank hide. Giles would have known what to do. Giles always knew what to do._

_You never told Giles about the tie._

Weeks passed, then months. The tie languishes unseen on the bottom of your lingerie drawer because you can't quite bring yourself to the point of throwing it away.

You steal another glimpse of Spike through the little window.

His head's up, nostrils flaring, eyes half-shut with concentration, mouth slightly open. He's caught your scent and knows you're on the other side of the door. He's got an unlit cigarette tucked behind one ear.

_I'm a grown-up now, Spike, with grown up responsibilities. I don't have time any more for you and your nasty childish games... you were right, I don't love you, I never loved you and seeing you now of all times... _

The bell rings one more time. You take another look outside. He's walking back down the sidewalk, head down, hands in pockets, thin shoulders hunched, bag forgotten, towards a waiting taxi.

_He looks awfully cold for someone who doesn't have a pulse._

Tucking the stake you keep by the front door into the pocket of your robe "just in case", you undo the latch and open the door, "Spike?"

**Shrine**

Two fifteen a.m. finds the two of you facing each other in front of the little coal hearth in what was once the formal parlor of the old Victorian villa, the only light coming from a few candles around the room.

You're in the green baize armchair.

Spike sits, or rather slouch-sprawls in the leather wingback that Giles spends his evenings reading in with Sorcha on his lap.

_Leave it to Spike to choose the most controversial chair in the room in the hopes of starting something. Guess having a soul doesn't change everything after all... _

Upstairs your very small niece sleeps, oblivious to what's going on beneath her just one floor down.

Spike breaks the silence first, nervously sitting up straight when he blurts out, "Buffy, I didn't come to start a row. I just come to see me niece, is all." He won't look at you.

"Your niece?" you flare up angrily, "Spike, Sorcha's not even a half cousin three times removed to you!"

"I come to see me niece." Spike swallows hard before he adds, eyes glinting in the candlelight as they briefly flicker at you. "I want, I want to give 'er a something."

"You want to give her a _something_?" Angry, you stand up and start wandering around the room with its curiosities, souvenirs of a life spent in the shadows, mingled among the small watercolors that you found among Dawn's things after her death. You had them framed and displayed in here because you don't want to forget her, "Spike, Sorcha isn't your niece! You're not even part of the family, you never were! Now you show up in the middle of the night with a damned baby gift?"

"Yeah Buffy, I 'ave. For me lit'l niece, a gift." Spike stands and tries to loom over you as you pause to pick up a silver-framed snapshot of Connor and a very pregnant Dawn standing and holding hands next to one of the red-coated guards at Buckingham palace. Dawn glows while Connor looks warily up at the guard's tall black fur hat as if he fully expects the thing to leap from the man's head and attack them both. Spike takes the picture away from you and puts it back on the little end table, "Look, pet, I just want, I just... I loved Dawn, even when... when she threatened to set me on fire in m' sleep near the... near the end... for doin' what I did that one... and I don't blame 'er even though it hurt like Hell to know that in, you know... doing what I did... I hurt more than just you that night when I upset the apple cart in your lavvy."

Disgust must have shown on your face. Spike swings his head back and forth a few times, eyes closed. Then he opens them, finally looking right at you, "No, it wasn't like that, so before you get your knickers in a twist, I loved your little sis, no not like you and me. Your Dawnie was me _sister_, me _lit'l sister_. Now the Niblet's dead and I wants to see me niece!" Maybe it's being back on his native soil that makes him like this, but suddenly Spike's more alien than you remember, his accent's thicker and the usual swaggger that he flavors everything he does with is gone to be replaced with by an edgy nervousness that you've never seen before in him. "I have every right to see 'er. Let me see Sorcha and then I'll just be on me bloody way out of your beautiful, clean life so you can have it back, right?"

"No."

"Then why'd you soddin' have me in then?"

You turn your back on him, aimlessly wandering around the parlor, pausing just a little bit where Dawn's casket rested less than three months ago before your turn and say through clenched teeth: "I don't know."

"You bloody well don't know? Now that's a fine piece of work that is, innit!" Spike gives you one of his patented, "Are you really that stupid?" looks of disbelief before he starts moving in a counter dance to yours: pacing, picking things up and putting them back down, turning figurines to face the wall, looking at Dawn's paintings.

_There's a half-finished one of him in his inevitable painted-on black t-shirt, sitting smoking in the door of his crypt, a bottle by his feet - the only reason you had this one framed was that it was one of her better ones, not because Spike was in it. _

Spike stares at this one for a very long time, face blank, before violently facing you and snarling, "You let me in but you won't let me see me niece?"

"I said I don't know!" you snarl back.

Sooooo it's back to the way it had been, as if things have never changed, as if he'd never crawled back to Sunnydale with a soul and an itchy conscience. He's pacing, you're fuming, and you're both arguing over nothing. Only this time it's not nothing. Soul or not, Spike's still a monster. You want your niece kept away from monsters for as long as possible; never mind that the Tarot readings that Giles and Willow got off Sorcha not two days after her birth tell you differently.

_If you look at Spike, if you didn't know the body count he's racked up, if you didn't know what he really was, you'd say, "O.K., so he's a little weird looking with his black lacquered fingernails, heavy leather duster and eyeliner, but lots of kids are weird these days. It's just a phase. Let him see his niece. Let him hold the her on his lap." Never mind that those beautiful hands have more than once snapped necks, gouged eyes, and ripped beating hearts from their owner's chests. "So what if he sometimes looks like he's got way too many teeth for a human mouth? Nobody's perfect! Let him hold Sorcha, take a few snapshots while you're at it to put in the baby book, maybe send a few to his mother..."_

_...never mind that he has two faces, one angelic, one demonic and his own mother died over a century ago at his hand...and that his teeth know what it's like to rip into a living throat...yet he had been so... tender? the one time you let him drive and not you. Instead of the scourging you demanded, his hands had wandered gently, reverently, all over your body beneath your clothes out behind the Doublemeat Palace when the rest of the world wouldn't listen because you refused to talk. His teeth had been gentled for you, nipping lightly at the back of your neck, your shoulders... your throat, while his hips thrust away between your thighs as if he was leading you through a dance. _

Eve. Don't forget Eve.

_Afterwards, Spike had leaned beside you, a freshly lit cigarette dangling from between his lips, against the greasy bricks of the alleyway, looking at you through his dark eyelashes as you hurridly pulled your polyester uniform pants back up. With a little smile, he'd said softly, in a voice you've never heard from him before or since, "Feel better now, love?" as he reached out to touch your hair... _

Eve. Don't forget Eve.

_As a thank you, you hit him in the face so hard you felt his jaw fracture against the side of your fist. _

_The sound of bone snapping and the stunned look on his face as he went down, haunted you for days. _

Eve.

_Right! As bad as you feel now, don't give in, don't be tempted - don't let him near the baby. You were stupid to let him break the sacred barrier that all thresholds guard, bringing his dirt, his smarm, his violence into a place that you've gone out of your way to keep clean - why on earth did you let Spike into your house, your nice clean house where monsters are something on old Dr. Who re-runs and blood is something that you see every 28 days and not a staple to be microwaved to 98.6° before being slurped out of a coffee cup?_

_Throw Spike out! Throw him out out out out! Better yet, dust him where he stands like you should have done years ago. Don't look into his eyes and see how hurt he is, never mind how many lives he's ruined in the past._

_Just like you. Right? For every vampire you let get away, there was a funeral maybe five, maybe six. You've left your own blood trail behind you ever since you woke up one morning in LA at the age of fifteen and smashed the alarm clock because somehow in the night you'd become stronger than you should be and some old guy named Merrick accosted you on your way to cheerleader practice..._

"Please Buffy, I just want to see her." Spike stops pacing, taking your hands in his two cold ones; hesitantly kissing your coffin scarred knuckles.

His eyes look pleadingly into yours and you find your resolve beginning to dissolve.

"Spike, get out." Giles stands in the doorway leading out into the hallway, leaning on a cane that he didn't need before Sorcha was born thanks to Ethan Rayne's greed. His bathrobe is tied messily and his thinning hair is on end as if he got out of bed in a hurry. "Regardless of what you did for us in the end when the Hellmouth collapsed, you are not to come near us because I, we, cannot forget what you really are, soul or not."

"No," you say, disengaging your hands, "Spike just got in from L.A. He only wants to see Sorcha is all."

"I don't think that's a good idea - we both agreed that..."

"I know, I know!" You interrupt your Watcher, "But if I let him see Sorcha, maybe he could convince Angel to..."

"Buffy, from what you have told me from Angel's letters, Spike couldn't convince Angel to pull his thick Byronic head out of his arse even if he threatened to set him on fire..." You fold your arms and scowl. Giles looks old as he puts an arm around your shoulder and leads you into the kitchen, leaning heavily on you.

The two of you face each other down, you with your butt on the edge of the kitchen counter, Giles propping himself on the edge of the Aga cooker. Angel's been a sore point between the two of you for years, and now its gotten worse because Angel's turned his back on his grandchild.

_You can live with Angel having abandoned you back in the old days, but to ignore Sorcha? _

There have been huge boxes of tastefully selected age-appropriate toys and clothing arriving weekly from L.A. ever since Sorcha was born two months ago last October, but nothing, well, _personal_. You're now just beginning to suspect that Spike may be behind it because every time you thank Angel when one shows up on your doorstep all covered with UPS stickers, you get no response. Connor receives nothing. Not so much as a note asking about how he's being treated at the Watcher's Asylum. When you visit him every other day, Angel's son inevitably asks you through his drugged haze if his father has come to see him.

Connor always cries when you reluctantly tell him "No."

As you and your Watcher argue, Spike hovers around the corner of your awareness. He did that a lot back in Sunnydale; like some wild animal drawn to a campfire, too wary to approach but too fascinated by the light to completely go away.

You and Giles argue some more until you come to a compromise.

Spike may stay, he may even see the baby, but he'd best keep his filthy hands to himself and be gone by tomorrow night.

Your despised former lover... seems grateful.

You take Spike into your bedroom, ignoring the dirty clothes strewn 'round the place, and let him peer down at Sorcha all wrapped up in a pink blanket, rosebud mouth partially open, eyes shut, her long dark lashes fanned out across her apple cheeks.

Spike's long, beautiful hands with their black lacquered fingernails hesitantly reach out towards your niece. You smack them away. "I wasn't going to 'urt 'er!" he protests, jamming them deep into the pockets of his duster, the one he'd looted from the body of Robin's mother even before her body'd had time to cool on the dirty floor of a New York subway car.

"We agreed, hands off. Keep it that way!"

Spike pulls into himself, sucks in his cheeks and rocks back and forth on his heels a few times, "All right Buffy, a deal's a deal. I keep me filthy paws off the kid and you don't stake me." His eyes glitter in the nightlight beside the bassinet.

"Right. Now get _out_."

"If. It. Would. Make. You. Happy. _Pet_." Spike turns to leave. "I'll take the next flight out of Heathrow to L.A. and get out of both your lives."

Did you just see a tear roll down one cheek?

_They can do that you know, vampires, cry. Angel cried a lot, but it didn't stop him from walking out on you when you needed him the most. You relent._

_A little._

"Spike, you can stay in the guest room, second door to the right down the hall. It has its own bathroom. There's clean towels in the closet - just don't try anything funny."

"I. Won't. Pet. "

Spike's footsteps echo down the hall. A door opens and then shuts.

_Your little sister and Connor slept in that room, playing "house" before the doctors found out that there was something wrong with Dawn and had her hospitalized where you couldn't protect her. The memory of walking past their closed door late at night on your way to the bathroom and hearing the two of them giggling in the big bed when they should have been sleeping makes your eyes sting..._

You spend the rest of the night standing solitary guard over Dawn and Connor's only child.

**9-5**

Willow and Xander pick you and Sorcha up the next day on their way to work after you see Giles off to his physical therapist in a cab. Willow is now in charge of building the new online databases for the new and improved Council. Xander, still a contractor at heart, went through the thicket of red tape that is England's union system, and is now contentedly helping rebuild the physical aspect of the center.

Both are not happy to hear that Spike's returned like some sort of bad smell.

"You didn't let him near Sorcha?" Xander asks you as he helps you put Sorcha in the baby seat that's in the back of his car. "Hellmouth or not, The Evil Dead should not be allowed near children, puppies and anything without a warrantee."

"No, I just let him look at her." You finish buckling Sorcha in and put on your own seat belt.

Willow sits up front, laptop across her knees. She looks at you both over the back of the seat, concerned. "Buffy, I know Spike's got a soul and all, and you told me about what happened when the Hellmouth collapsed, but soul or not, without the chip in his head, I still don't think you can trust him." Willow reaches over sticks the pacifier back in Sorcha's mouth. It's solid rubber because even without teeth, your niece has already bitten clean through five of the regular ones and choked."You know how Spike is, he gets all friendly with you and then whap! he'll turn around and do something all mean and horrible! Remember what he did to you in your own bathroom when you broke up with him?" Willow pauses, before whispering so that Xander doesn't hear, "And, well, _Eve_?"

_Oh God, why did she have to remind you of that? You should never have told her! _

"Thanks, no, Wills. Already been there, don't want to think about it."

"Sacrifice for the world or not, I still think you should wait for him to go to sleep and stake him. End of..." Xander broke off as he began to close the car door on Sorcha's side, you follow his gaze up to the second floor. The guest bedroom curtain is moving like someone has been looking out. "You don't suppose he heard me? Good! You hear me Dead Man Stalking? I hope she stakes you and that's the end of it you freak!"

"Xander!" you and Willow both say at once.

Xander does not look repentant. Instead he tosses the British double fingered salute up at the window and stomps 'round to the driver's side, yanks open the door, sits down hard, slams the door, starts the engine as he buckles his seat belt, and then pulls out into the pre-dawn traffic.

You ride on in silence except for the smacking sound of Sorcha contentedly sucking on her pacifier and the car's heater.

Silence is loud. Did you know that?

It's a relief when Xander finally pulls up and parks in front of the new Watcher's Council building out on the edge of some anonymous London suburb.

The four of you get out: Xander goes to the new wing that will house the dormitories for the older girls once the drywall is in place. Willow silently peels off, laptop and briefcase in hand at the new Archives where she's supervising the construction of a new LAN system, leaving and you and Sorcha to yourselves. Sorcha goes to the special nursery where the girls who were called literally in their cradles now romp and giggle among reinforced toys that won't smash and shatter the second they forget the restrained gentleness that is being constantly drilled into them so that they won't hurt the people around them. One of the nannies, the same species as Clem, takes Sorcha from you, cooing and fussing over your niece in a thick Irish accent.

You enter your office on the third floor, and close the door behind you, locking it.

You take your shoes off, loosen the buttons on your new power suit, and instantly go to sleep on the couch for the rest of the day, only pausing to wake up from memories that leave your face wet with tears.

**Lamb, Mushy Peas...and O Positive**

Giles is home, dinner is ready, Sorcha's already downed a bottle so she's in her reinforced bouncy chair on the end of the table contentedly sucking on her pacifier

Spike comes downstairs and pointedly takes a seat at the kitchen table that's as far away from your niece as possible after taking a blood bag out of the refrigerator and emptying it into a mug.

Giles gives him a look as he passes you the lamb casserole. Obviously Spike found the frozen plasma you'd bought two months ago so that Angel would have something to eat while he attended Dawn's funeral. You left them untasted in the freezer next to the ice cream and the frozen peas, unwilling to throw them away because you keep telling yourself, "He'll be here any day now. He'll need them when he does."

Silence.

_Yeah, right!_

More silence.

Spike's looking down at his hands where they rest on the worn tablecloth cradling his dinner, which you notice he hasn't bothered to warm up in the microwave. You see his eyes sliding constantly in the direction of Sorcha who is now quietly singing to herself while her little hands flutter randomly around her face which is what she does when all is right with the world.

Even more silence.

You start on the mushy peas.

_Disgusting! But that's the price you pay when you let Giles cook for you!_

You could cut the silence with a knife should you choose to.

Sorcha's tiny left hand, the active, wicked nasty-bad one with attitude, yanks the pacifier from her mouth and drops it onto the floor. Your niece gets her usual stunned look on her face as if to say, "Where'd it go? I just had it here not a minute ago. This is unfair!" before throwing her head back, shaking it soundlessly from side to side with her mouth wide open, face turning purple. Finally she cuts loose with one of her ear piercing shrieks that you swear will one day shatter glass.

_What a relief! _

You reach over to pick up the pacifier. Spike's hand intercepts yours, getting there first. Without being told, he gets up, walks over to the sink, and runs the tap over the pacifier. Without breaking eye contact with you, he puts it back in Sorcha's mouth before sitting back down again.

Sorcha immediately stops screaming. Her eyes close as she begins to contentedly abuse it once more with her rock crusher jaws.

"Thank you." is all you say.

**Happy, Haunekah? Merry Christmas? Uhhhhhh, Solstice?**

Xander and Willow are at the door with a little Christmas tree and three big bags of gifts for Sorcha.

You and Giles get some too.

Kennedy is conspicuously absent - this is going to be a good evening after all!

Their hands linger on each other, discreetly.

_What's up with that? If it is what you think it is, it's about time._

Spike shoots up the back stairs like a scalded cat, his meal untouched and congealing on the kitchen table.

Willow glows as she picks up her goddaughter, or is that goddessdaughter? You've forgotten how radient your best friend can be - there was something about being around Kennedy that dampened that down. She's also brazenly flirting with Xander.

_You were right!_

"See Sorkie? See the pretty tree?" She holds a dozy Sorcha upright to see her first Christmas Tree. "Ira Rosenberg's daughter finally has her own little tree! Buffy, did you know that I had to sneak out of the house every year to help Xander's family decorate theirs since I was five? They always did it the same night that "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was on and Xander, well, you know!" She kisses Sorcha with many loud smacks and passes her to Xander before opening a brand new box of tiny blown blue glass balls and little silver menorahs with a Harrod's label on it, "'Course now I'm a Wicca and this is just a way of commemorating..._Xander_!" she wails, "We forgot the little hookie thingys!"

Giles comes to the rescue with a box of paper clips and you all spend a few minutes re-bending them into Christmas tree hooks. Willow then spends a blissful hour decorating the little tree to her heart's content. The rest of you sit around the parlor, watching, enjoying her delight because you know that the tree's really more for her than it is for Sorcha.

You sense Spike's presence upstairs in Dawn and Connor's, no, the _guest_ room like a dark blot on a piece of white paper. His promise to leave tonight has been broken. But you're enjoying your friend's happiness too much to make an issue of it.

**_"Thy cradle is all silken lined..."_**

Xander and Willow went home after Faith dropped by to say "hey". You've forgiven her for a lot of things since you saw her cry at Robin's funeral, .

You put Sorcha down in the bassinet before following her into sleep.

Hours later you wake up and the room is freezing.

There's a window open to the winter night and Sorcha is missing.

Her little coat is gone from the bedpost. So is the little baby sized quilt that your aunt back in L.A. made for Sorcha when she was born.

_Oh God, not again!_

You scramble out of bed, knocking over a box of disposable diapers, no _nappies_, too frightened to even turn on the bedside lamp. You should never have listened to Giles when he found out that you wanted everything around Sorcha coated with protective charms and advised you against it because no telling what the proximity of so much magic might do to such a young child and Willow had firmly agreed. So you'd settled for practically never letting her out of your sight unless you had to.

_Boots! Boots! Where are my winter boots? Oh God where are my winter boots?_

You find them when you trip over them over by your dressing table, leaving a dent in the plaster and lathe wall. You only leave her with people you trust, that Willow and Giles have run background checks on...and you've failed to protect her anyway. Trying not to give in to your rising hysteria because this is the last thing Sorcha needs, you sit down and try to pull them on, only to pause when you heard a man's voice singing softly outside the open window.

_Thy cradle is all silken lined,  
Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,  
Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread,  
And soft white pillows for thy head. _

Crawling on your hands and knees to the window, you strain to make out the words. Is this some sort of charm to throw you off the thief's trail or to keep Sorcha from crying?

_Much gold those little hands shall hold,  
And wealth about thy life shall fold,  
And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,  
Nor the low ills of common life._

You peer cautiously over the sill. above you, there's a man silhouetted against the moon sitting with his back against the chimney, hair blowing in the wind.

_These little feet shall never tread   
Except on paths soft-carpeted,  
And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine  
To deck that darling head of thine._

Spike? You didn't know that he could sing. No, wait, there was that time... Do we have time for this? No!

_Thou shalt have overflowing measure  
Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,  
And thou shalt be right charitable  
With all the crumbs that leave thy table._

Stunned you lean out, _"Spike, what the hell are you doing?"_ you demand.

"Shhh pet, you'll wake the baby." There's a light, mocking sing-song tone in his voice; you catch a glimmer of teeth and eyes in his shadowed face.

Angry, you scramble out the window before clambering up the frigid brickwork and old ivy vines, heaving yourself up over the gutter and onto the slippery roof tiles after you put on your coat. Spike reaches out a hand; effortlessly pulling you up beside him on the little stone ledge around the chimney where brick meets slate without even shifting position.

"First I let you into my home and then you..."

"Buffy, you'll wake the baby, I just wanted to see her, is all, an' show 'er my London."

"What?"

"Show her my Town, a lit'l fun, is all." You notice that Spike's hair is a loose mass of curls; he hasn't gelled it into submission the way he usually does. Socha's asleep against his chest, little mittened hands tangled in his shirt, cheek tight against the leather of his duster. "Lean back against the chimney, still warm it is, safe as 'ouses, used to do it all the time as a wee lad."

You reach out and try to take your niece from him. He eases Sorcha gently out of your reach, "Sorcha, me mum never knew that some nights I'd sit up 'ere, just watching the lights in all the 'ouses, wonderin' what the people on the other side of all those windows were like..."

"What?"

"You're Uncle Spike, that's me, was born in this 'ouse, in your Auntie Buffy's bedroom."

"What the hell are you talking about, Spike?"

"Right 'ere platelet, I was born, right under where we're sittin', ducks."

"Spike, you once told me your mother was a Whitechapel whore and your father God knows?" Leaning on one elbow, he'd told you this one hot afternoon as the two of you lay across the room from each other post-coitus in his crypt while the cicadas buzzed in a sex mad roar and you didn't have the energy to tell him to "Shut up" as usual. It hadn't made sense at the time because he had earlier told you that his mum was prim, proper, and too dainty a lady to read the newspaper for herself; making him read it aloud to her each morning after he'd first edited it for things that were too shocking for a woman of good breeding to hear.

_Oh, and that she would have died a second death of shame had she ever heard him speaking with a working class accent which is why he still made a point of dropping his 'aiches when he remembered to._

"Now, ducks, me mum came from a good family and me dad did too, only 'e was married and couldn't do right by 'er so 'e kept the two of us in this house out of sight, out of mind where we wouldn't embarrass 'im." One handedly Spike fumbles around in his pockets before producing a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. He eases one out with his teeth, shoving it back down into the pocket it came from before pulling out his lighter. Spike pauses, glancing over at you and then flips the top of the lighter open with a metallic click and lights up - sheltering the little flame from the wind with the fingers of the same hand as he dips his mouth with its burden of tobacco towards it, one eyebrow quirked in your direction, daring you to say something.

You scowl at him in the moonlight but Spike lights up anyway, angling himself into the wind so that the smoke won't disturb Sorka. With a clink, the lighter goes out and follows the pack of cigarettes back into his duster pocket. He scoots back against the chimney, both arms firmly wrapped around your niece, face tilted to the sky, throat bared to the moon, puffing meditatively out of the corner of his mouth.

Below, a party of late night pre-holiday revelers sings and staggers up the sidewalk.

The moon goes behind a cloud, darkening everything.

You find yourself dozing off despite the cold.

"Now see down there ducks?" His voice wakes you with a start, "That's where when I was a very small lad of seven, I stood in the window one morning and watched the undertaker carry the wee lit'l white coffin of me baby sister down the stairs, up the walk and into the 'earse." Spike paused to take a deep drag, holding it forever before expelling it through his nose in a long, trembling stream, free hand draped over his knee. He continues. "Your Aunt Susan's coffin was no bigger 'n a shoebox and looked very strange sitting in the middle of that huge glass sided 'earse without even a flower to keep 'er company or mourners to follow. I wasn't allowed to say goodbye because that's the way it was done in this house. If you didn't see it, it didn't exist, right? Right!" He flicked the ash off the end in a shower of orange sparks that trailed away into the wind. "Nothin' nasty or improper ever 'appened in this 'ouse 'cept me. So, I didn't even 'ave t' wear black because it _soddin' never happened!_"

"Oh Spike, I never knew..." A slow horror fills you; at least Dawn had mourners. At least you'd seen her off though the sight of the earth swallowing her up had ripped you in half.

Spike went on as if he didn't hear you, "I'd take you to see our Sukey, platelet, but some planner 'ad the bloody cheek to run the M5, a bloody great highway that is, right over her grave. I'll drive you that section some day, right?"

Sorcha whimpers and Spike shushes her, rocking her a little. "And over there Sorks," he points way off in the distance with the glowing end of his cigarette, "Two streets over, is where we moved after we got back from a summer by the sea at Brighton because losin' me wee sister, _even though it never 'appened,_ made me mum go all quiet and funny in 'er 'ead and start coughing up blood. Anyway, the doctors said a change would do 'er good."

You shift closer, your anger beginning to ebb just a little. Spike ignores you, "I'd take you to see me new house ducks, but sorry, some kraut barstard dropped a bomb on it in 1942 - blew it to bits! Nothin' left but a cellar hole and even that's gone now - 's paved over, a parkin' lot for a bloody supermarket! I liked that place. You would too pet. It had a garden where you could sit and smoke all day with nobody bloody yammerin' in your ears that you and your words weren't good enough for the likes a them, pet! That they didn't want t' marry you because you didn't 'ave a real name and would never amount to anythin' because you weren't the real son of your own father, pet! Never mind that they thought it would be amusin' to invite you to their soddin' parties because havin' nameless you 'round made them feel daringly Modern, pet! It wasn't like it is now, nobody cares who your parents are, or that's the way it's supposed to be." There was an unhappy snarl in Spike's voice as he looked right at you, "Do you know who your father is wee one? Did your aunt see to it that he did right by you and at least tried to go to the Registry office with your mum? Or was she careless, letting it get past her like she did everything else including your good ol' Uncle Spike? Eh ducks? Eh?"

"Spike, that's _enough_!" You slide over and take Sorcha away from him. Spike hunches, arms resting on his knees, chin resting on arms, looking out over London at midnight."Connor took very good care of Dawnie even down to the end when she died - if they didn't make it legal. Don't blame me, blame Ethan Rayne when he grabbed my sister, only letting us have her back when it was too late. Dawnie's _dead_ Spike, _end of story!_"

Sorcha begins to howl.

"You woke up me niece." There's the same slight quaver in Spike's voice that you once heard when you thought you were telling him goodbye forever beneath Sunnydale and he let you know that he knew you never loved him, not really. "Give her to us, will you pet?" Spike tossed his cigarette over the edge of the roof in a shower of dull orange sparks and holds out his hands.

Against your better judgment, you pass Sorcha back. Spike starts singing to her again with his cigarette roughened voice, the same song as before, "Me mum used to sing this to me now and then in between that _other_ song..." he said in between the first and second verse, "Wanted to teach this one to Dawnie but never got the chance - was going to come and visit, but I didn't think I'd be welcome after you slammed the door in me face in L.A. when you came to take her away from us, when she started showin' what Connor did to her."

"Spike, I didn't shut the door on you, you shut the door on me."

"I bloody well did not!" Sorcha starts and begins to wail again, "Hush platelet, your Auntie Buffy's still got that hair-trigger temper, forgot all about it, didn't we?" He continued, "I come to your suite at Wolfrum and Hart and you slammed th' soddin' door in me face - Dawnie gettin' in the family way wasn't my bloody fault! If I 'ad known Connor was carryin' a loaded gun in his trousers, I would 'ave cut it off before I ever let him near her!"

_"You think I'm blaming you for Dawn's getting pregnant?"_ This is funny. This is too, too funny, "It happened. It would have happened sooner or later. Angel and I guess Angel's son has that effect on Summers women. If she'd lived, I would have loved to have had him as a brother-in-law - Connor's major weird, but he made Dawn happy like I'd never seen her before. You should have seen them together - he waited on her hand and foot and slept on the floor beside her bed when the doctor's put her on bed rest. I'd never seen Angel's son smile before but Dawnie could make him smile just by looking at him!" You can't stop giggling, "It wasn't that. Who cares about all that? It's why in Hell if you really loved me, did I walk in on you eating Eve, of all people, out? On her desk? Harmony I could almost understand, but Eve? During her _period_?"

The two of you sit next to each other for a long time, the only sound being that of cars whispering by on the street below.

"That, cough wasn't sex, that was _lunch_." Spike mumbled. From what you could see of his face, he has the grace for once to look embarrassed. Maybe he is. You can't tell because for Spike, the truth has always been as malleable as warm chewing gum; to be stretched and pulled into whatever sticky shape he wants it to be. You'd just stood there in the doorway, stunned at the sight of Spike face down on his knees between Eve's legs, her manicured fingers twisted into his hair. Without looking up he'd said, "Bugger off Harm, I'm busy!"

Eve had laughed even as you noticed her briefly stiffen and then sigh, relaxing with half lidded eyes, "You should really try this. It eases the cramps like nothing else, having a cold tongue at work down there. Right Spike?" Spike had mumbled something that you couldn't quite make out and Eve continued, "Let me guess, you're Buffy Summers and you're looking for Angel." Spike started and fell over backwards, landing at your feet with a yell, looking up at you, blood dribbling down his chin. Eve slid off the edge of her desk, one hand casually adjusting her skirt back over her thighs, the other extended towards you, "You may go now, Spike. Come back around three. Buffy, so you're the original Slayer, pleased to meet you. I'm Eve, Angel's liaison with the Senior Partners." There was a wicked glint in her eyes as Spike scrambled to his feet and fled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Trying to keep your cool in the face of the enemy, you asked Eve where Angel's office was, excused yourself, and left.

Then it had been humiliating. Now, up on a roof with the North wind blowing up your pajama legs, suddenly it's funny.

"What'n 'ell are you laughing 'bout, Buffy?" Spike glares at you while lighting up a fresh smoke. "You knew what I was when you shagged me the first time but you did it anyway - what's so soddin' funny?"

"The look on your face when you fell out from between Eve's legs. God, it looked like someone had goosed you with a cattle prod!" It feels good to laugh; you haven't done it for so long that you've forgotten what it feels like to let go.

"S'not funny that is, a man needs his dignity. Even when he's on the job." Spike takes a deep drag and holds it with an injured air about him- which just makes you laugh all the harder.

"Spike, if you had any dignity, you wouldn't have gotten caught."

"Fair enough."

"Fair enough? Why didn't you at least call when you came back?"

"Because I was afraid of what I would find when I did." Spike quietly interrupted, looking away.

"You what?" You stop laughing and hold Sorcha to you.

"I was afraid of what I would find if I... contacted you. Then there was Wolfram & Hart. Well, let's just say even before you dumped the Niblet on us, things were heating up..."

"I did not! Dawn didn't want to finish school in a foreign country and Angel agreed to be her guardian!"

"And I let Connor at her. Now our Dawn's dead and it's all me fault."

"Spike, you're full of shit."

"Am not!"

"I know full of shit when I see it, and you're overflowing with it." You don't know weather to continue laughing or to burst into tears, so you do neither. "Spike, it's letting off the hook time. I needed someone, you were there and you didn't say no."

"Yeah. I didn't." He closes his eyes, "I didn't. You meant more to me than I ever did to you - even then I knew it. It's better to have a wee lie or two than nothing, innit?"

You lean against Spike, the warm bricks at your back. Hesitantly he puts his arm around your shoulder and the two of you just sit there like that for a long time.

"Buffy, if... if I ever came to you with a pulse, would you have me?"

"No."

"That's what I thought you'd say." Spike shifted and sighed. "Somehow hearing it makes it real."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I knew the game was over long ago."

What, no histrionics? No rages? No declarations of revenge?

"Thank you." is all you say.

**Tea With The Devil**

You're back in Giles' kitchen, the kettle heating on the Aga cooker, Sorcha's back upstairs in her bassinet, fast asleep. "So, what was this you wanted to give Sorcha?"

You look at Spike. Spike looks up at the light fixture over the table.

The little electric clock shaped like a ship's wheel over the sink ticks.

The fridge kicks in with a rattling cough.

With a whistle the kettle comes to a full boil.

"Better get that pet before you wake Giles with that racket." Spike sounds uncharacteristically tired as you rise and turn off the burner before bringing the kettle over and sitting down again. Giles has tried over and over to teach you how to make a "proper" cup of tea, but the lessons never stuck so you had Angel ship you a five pound box of Lipton tea bags. When you pull a tea bag out of the box that you keep on the table next to the salt and pepper shakers, Spike finally looks you in the eye before he takes the tea bag away from you with a derisive flick before tossing it into the trash, no _bin_, by the cooker. He stands, opens a cupboard and takes down the tea things as if he already knew where they were.

Maybe Spike does. He was after all, born in this house. If he is to be believed. The British can be very conservative. Perhaps that cabinet has always been where tea things are stored, the only thing different being the owners over the years, no, _century_ or so since as a child he'd sat on its roof and dreamed about what might be beyond the dark urban skyline.

"Buffy, you've been here how many bloody years and you still don't know how to do it right? Your mum could, every time she let me in of an evening." Spike warms the Brown Bess teapot with hot water from the tap before filling it with loose tea and hot water from the stovetop kettle. He then sets it down in front of you, along with the strainer, the cream jug, the little glass lemon dish, and the sugar. You offer to share, but he fends you off with: "Couldn't taste it then, can't taste it now, Bourbon's about the only thing aside from beer, wine, strong coffee and onions that I have left to me other than blood. But she wanted me to feel at home, so I let her."

"My mother served you _tea?"_ you give your former demon lover a look of disbelief.

"Is that so very odd?" Spike takes off his duster, draping it over the back of his worn kitchen chair before he sits down and began to go through the ritual that is tea, his hands working steadily as he met your eyes. "Buffy, even before I got my soul back, the chip had already made me like the bat in the old fairy story. He wasn't a bird, he wasn't beast; he was a little of both. So when it came time for the little bugger to choose sides, he couldn't because he didn't belong with either so both sides ended up hating him." Spike picked up the strainer in one hand and paused. "I had no place to go after the Initiative blew up with you and the Scoobies help. That summer, Joyce gave me one even though I terrified her out of her mind. I could smell it on her, the fear. I did for her."

"You what?" _Oh God, not my mother! _

The complacency, the near-forgivness you were beginning to feel toward Spike, begins to evaporate, "With my mother? How could you?" Your voice rises, "Nothing's sacred around you is it? Nothing!"

"Buffy, Buffy, no need to go the stroppy cow on me! Ease off!"

You force yourself to relax. Like finding about whose Connor's mother was, this is something you need to know no matter how painful it might be.

"It wasn't like that, right? All I did was mow the lawn and clean the gutters now and then for her. Right? I even mended things 'round the house and her gallery, though I knew sod all about any of that stuff and only made things worse. Right? Now. Did your precious Captain Cardboard with his wholesome 'gee-gosh-golly can I help too?' attitude even try to do his part? That big wanker never did lift a finger 'round the place while he was eatin' your mum's food and sittin' on her couch with his big farm boy arse, right?" Spike hands you a cup on a saucer, an incongruous moment, accepting something so delicate, so civilized from an acknowledged killer. "Right! So, while you two were out shaggin' I was clipping the bloody hedges!" Scowling, Spike throws himself back into the chair in a half slouch, legs thrust out before him beneath the table before picking up a loose spoon and rapping it in a sharp, nervous tattoo against the table edge before he snarls, "Bloody Hell! Buffy, helpin' your mum out was the least I could do, was the only thing I _could_ do! I would have done anything for Joyce. I would have even given her a roll in the sack had she asked."

You spit your tea out, exclaiming, "That's disgusting!"

"Is it? Buffy, your mum was hot, and your old man was a fool to set her aside!"

Spike stood up and began restlessly pacing the narrow confines of the kitchen, punctuating his anger by stabbing the air around him with the spoon, "Bloody Hell! Because she was the only one of you lot that never shut me out, not once, I would have gone and found your old man and beat the child support money out of him for her even if it made my head explode. But she never asked, she never soddin' asked for either from me! All she ever asked me to do were odd jobs 'round the house which kept me in pocket money for smokes and plasma." Spike angrily flings the spoon at the wall over the sink, where it sticks vibrating before one of his hands creeps to the back of his head, almost but not quite touching it before catching himself and quickly shoving both hands into his back pockets. You've seen Spike do this before when he thought nobody was looking. The night you'd settled accounts with Glory and gotten yourself killed, Spike scratched himself nearly raw back there before being distracted by the battle once it started. "Worse, you wouldn't even let me come to her funeral! You held it out in broad daylight so I couldn't even attend the service. I had to soddin' sit off in the old section under a filthy tarp and watch the whole thing, and then your brilliant friends wouldn't even let me come to the family gathering at Joyce's house after sundown because _I! Wasn't! Welcome!_"

"You wanted to come?"

"Joyce was the only real friend I ever had. She didn't want anything from me. She didn't try to run me so called life. She let me... ahhhh, bloody Hell! What would you know about friendship anyway? What with your precious Scoobies stabbin' you in the back every chance they got?"

"Spike, that's a dead issue. Kennedy is history. Willow and I have forgiven each other, end of story!"

_Is it? Is it really?_

_The two of you glare at each other, him leaning with his skinny ass against the edge of the Aga cooker, arms folded defensively, you in one of Gile's kitchen chairs. Yep, things really haven't changed all that much. Only who's gonna give now? You or him? He would have to have brought that little issue up, where Kennedy tossed you out of your own house and your best friend didn't object all that much because she was face down between Kennedy's legs just like Spike had been with Eve._

_Why does it always have to boil down to sex?_

Uncomfortable with the silence, you change the subject. "So, what's this thing you want to give Sorcha? The ashes of Santa Clause?" Just before you both climbed off the roof, you noticed that Spike removed a loose brick from the side of the chimney, pulled something out from behind it, and then slipped whatever it was into one of his duster pockets.

"It's Father Christmas over here, I'll have you know." Spike rolled his eyes with exasperation, "God, Summers, first you mess up something as simple as a cuppa and then you don't know the name of the local demon what goes down chimneys and eviscerates small children? What kind of Slayer are you?"

"What-_ever_! So, what is it Spike? I don't have all night!" Somehow you feel more than a little jealous of him. While you and Riley had been out on patrol, he'd spent time with your mother, time that you spent well, to be quite frank, doing the nasty in Riley's little apartment, hoping that the vampires you were supposed to be staking didn't rise that night because you didn't need _that_ on your conscience... being rude to Spike makes you feel better about the whole thing.

"This." He reaches into his duster pocket and puts a small, flat tarnished silver box down on the table between you while looking at you expectantly. You slide it toward you hesitantly with your free hand. "When I told your mother about it, she wanted me to show it to her some day."

It was an old fashioned cigar case, like the one Grampy Summers had. He told you once that his father had given it to him when he went off to shoot Germans in 1943 and that it had belonged to your Great Grampy Summers and his father before that.

Engraved on the lid were engraved the initials, WMT II. "So?" you ask.

"I am..." Spike pulled something else out of his pocket, a dogeared California driver's license and places it beside the cigar case. "I am William Michael Tully III...and this, this...was my father's. He accidentally left it in my mother's bedroom, where you sleep now, when I was six. I stole it." Spike said quietly, his accent now completely gone. He sounds like Giles only without the soft stutter. "Aside from that, and a small annual income that I was supposed to inherit when I was thirty, that's all I ever got from him. That, and his face." You look at the small piece of plastic. A mug shot of Spike, complete with closed eyes decorates one corner. Is this real? "My mother always said I had my father's face." Spike laughs, but there's something bitter in it, something you recognize from Dawn's voice whenever she asked you after mom died if Dad had called, written, _anything, _because she already knew the answer but she had to ask anyway because she'd feel worse if she didn't. "If I wanted to see my father, all I had to do, when still I could once upon a time, was look in the mirror every morning as the barber shaved me."

"Spike, I never knew. How could anybody?" But you know, you know because it had been done to you after your parents divorced. You went from beloved daughter, as had Dawn, to a quickly forgotten inconvenience. The two of you had been reduced to nothing more than a child support check which at first arrived monthly from Spain only to dwindle down down to "every once in a while", before transforming into a final "never".

"Open it. Please."

You push the license aside and take up the case, working the tiny catch, folding back the tarnished lid with its extinct monogram.

You pause, realizing that you aren't looking at a random collection of inanimate objects, but human remains.

They aren't much, being few little odds and ends, something a small child might treasure: a handful of lead toy soldiers, a shilling that someone had put on a railroad track and flattened, pebbles, tiny sea shells, a minute china dog with one chipped ear, and a fragile bird's egg, no bigger than a fingernail that someone had very painstakingly blown out. Beneath it all lay a faded picture of a child, a girl dressed in lace with long curls framing her grave, big-eyed face. "Is this, was this... Susan?" The thought of the Big Bad having a sibling is still a strange one.

"No, Buffy..." Spike says patiently as he slides one black lacquered nail beneath the dim little photograph and lifts it out before he hands it to you. "That's me."

"But the curls...the dress ...you're a boy, or were, I've seen you na..."

Spike leans forward, putting an unusually gentle finger against your lips. It smells of cigarette smoke and aftershave. "Things were different back then Buffy. My sister didn't live long enough to be photographed like this. Because she never happened, my mother never had her photographed in her lit'l coffin so I don't even have that."

"That's so gross!"

"Buffy...things were different then." Spike repeats quietly. "Things were _very_ different then."

"Well, what about the dress? I mean, therapy time!" You think the child is perhaps one or two years old.

"That's the way they dressed the little ones, the ones whose parents could afford it. I don't remember the day this was taken, I was too small, but I do remember the day when I stole my father's cigar case from where he'd left it on my mother's dressing table, and took it up onto the roof to see if I could smoke like he did," Spike laughed reflectively, "I found this in the bottom beneath the cigars, which by the way, made me heave all over myself on my first puff !"

Both of you sit there a long time, the case with it's little trickle of lead soldiers and seashells... the driver's license and the photograph, between you.

Spike breaks the silence, "Buffy, listen, please? Will you give these to Sorcha when she's old enough to understand?" he leans forward expectantly, "Look, I know you don't want me in Sorcha's life. I don't blame you, not any more, but could you tell her about me some day? And try not to laugh too hard when you do?"

Carefully you put the photograph, the seashells, the egg, the china dog and then the tiny lead soldiers one by one back into the case. You indicate the license.

Spike nods, and says, "It's real. Wolfram & Hart made it up for me in case I ever get stopped in traffic or need an ID. I have two copies." So you slip it in before slowly snapping the lid shut, like the lid of Dawn's coffin the night you buried her. "Yes. I will."

Spike sits back, looking at the ceiling. "Thank you." he whispers

His eyes are glittering again.

**Red Silk Tie**

Christmas Eve morning Giles came and took Sorcha out of the bassinet so that you could sleep in. You knew he'd been there last night, sitting in the darkened parlor the whole time, listening to you and Spike, but he says nothing.

Spike was gone, the bed unslept in as if he had never been there.

The tarnished silver cigar case with "WMT II" engraved on the lid now rests in your lingerie drawer, wrapped in a certain dark red silk tie.

Downstairs you hear Faith trying to convince Giles to let her string lights all over the place. Whoda thunk? Turns out Faith's a real junkie when it comes to Christmas decorations.

You lie there, thinking about looking out over London and seeing ghosts in the night with a ghost as your tour guide.

Someday you'll have to tell Sorcha all about it, once she's old enough to understand.


	2. Puce: Teething Ring

It all started when Spike showed up without warning the day before Sorcha's first birthday and took over the guest room. He sort of behaved himself by going outside to smoke and not baiting Giles.

Much.

Instead, the worst he got up to was spoiling Sorcha by giving in to any demand she made of him and pointedly ignoring you.

In return, you pointedly ignored him back.

Then this morning there was an emergency that needed all available hands: something big and ugly was dragging people down into the London sewers and leaving the clean picked bones on the sidewalks. Worse, Giles was working on the flu; so there was nobody to watch her.

Maisie and her girls have the thing cornered already, it'll only be a few hours, and I have the Scythe, you reasoned. What possible trouble can Spike cause in that small amount of time? Besides, Giles is right there in the house - he says he can keep an eye on them both as long so they don't leave the house, and Willow's wardlocks will take care of that.

And you'd had a hurried phone call with Wes, who nervously assured you that yes, Spike was all right. Weird at times, but nothing that Giles couldn't handle.

So, cell phone ringing in your back pocket, doubtlessly another frantic call from Maisie, you asked Spike.

Your ex played you for a few minutes, and then agreed.

Though you left Spike with a detailed list of ironclad instructions complete with the number for the British answer to Poison Control, and a matching one with Giles who was camped out in the parlour watching some lame early morning show, you left the house, uneasy.

Now it's lunch time, you're covered with slime, and Giles is upstairs in bed and it looks like he's not going to move until the next ice age plus his spotless kitchen now looks like someone's ritually slaughtered a bull in it. There's blood on the floor, the ceiling, and splattered across the window over the sink; it's even pooling under the refrigerator.

Sorcha sits in her high chair contentedly gnawing on a bone. She's the cleanest thing in the room, but her outfit, which isn't the one that you'd left out on the changing table this morning, is on backwards.

In fact, it isn't even one that you recognize.

Spike's sitting smoking at the kitchen table with all the windows open to the afternoon sun, and a fan blowing the smoke away from your niece; there are little red handprints all over his shirt, his face, and the back of his neck. His hair is standing up in stiff random dark red clumps.

You scream, _"What the Hell happened here?"_

Spike looks up at you mildly, "I gave our Sorcha a bone to chew on, pet."

"A bone?" You slam your war bag down in front of him on the sticky looking kitchen table, splattering up more blood. _"A bone?"_

Calmly Spike puts down his cigarette, wipes blood from one eye, then the other, and then flicks it up at the ceiling.

"I gave, pet, our Sorks, a bone, to chew on."

You gesture at the charnel carnage, at the blackened meat spilling out of the kitchen wastebasket and the ruined curtains over the sink, "All this for a _bone_?"

"Yeah. A. Bone." He takes out a fresh cigarette lights it from the old, leans back with arms folded and grins up at you challengingly through the blue wisps that trickle out of his nose. "Pet, I gave, our Sorks, a bone, to chew on. She's teething."

"I know Sorcha's teething. She has a perfectly good teething ring." You get your ex's face, "Why didn't you give it to her?"

"Teething ring?"

"It's a… it's a blue rubber ring that she… _it's right here!"_ You pick the teething ring up off the butcher paper and string cluttered countertop and wave it in his face, "How could you miss it?"

"So _that's_ a teething ring. I thought it was something for bumpin' uglies with. I mean," Spike drawls, "Look at all the nobbly bits on it!"

"A sex-" you sputter, tossing it down, "And you gave a baby a raw…

"No, I cooked it." Spike interrupts smugly, "I cooked it myself."

"You cooked it yourself?"

"I _know_ what a stove is." He stands up and kicks at the Aga, "It's this big wossisname with burners on top what takes up half the kitchen. It comes with an oven. I know it comes with an oven because even _I_ know what an oven door looks like." He gives you a disgusted look.

"And you gave Sorcha a beef bone when she has a perfectly good teething ring to chew on."

"Yeah."

"Why a bone?"

"It's what I gnawed on when I was an ankle biter. If it worked in 1860, it'll work now." Spike leans back against the stove, arms folded, ciggie dangling insolently from his lower lip. "So I called up the butcher and had a roast delivered on the old man's tab. And a little something," He gestures at the blood soaked kitchen, "For me."

You pick up a pile of delivery receipts, scanning them in disbelief and converting pounds to dollars. Appalled you drop the reciept to the floor, "My God, you ordered half a dozen roasts one at a time? On Giles' account? What did he say?"

Spike grins, "Giles was asleep, so he didn't say anything."

You splutter before managing to get out, "A half dozen roasts one at a time? Why the Hell did you do that?"

"I burned the first five."

"You _burned_ them?"

"Well, it said in the book that you roast a roast at 325 for 20 minutes per pound. I didn't want to wait around, so I did the first one at 800. Nearly took my eyebrows off, the flames did. So I ordered another one and did it at 600 – but I got to playin' with the baby and forgot. Soddin' thing looked like modern art."

Fuming, you stand there in your sewer perfumed clothes with blood slowly dripping down from the ceiling, ready to kill as Spike calmly describes the individual deaths of over sixty pounds of expensive beef roast and what happened when he accidentally left a pitcher of lunch too close to your niece's high chair.

"I finally cut the meat off the bone on the last one raw and boiled it. Now Sorks has a real _proper_ beef bone. Not some blue nobbly thing what looks like a reject from a knocking shop. Full of protien, too." Spike takes up the list you gave him, looks at it, checks at the kitchen clock, picks Sorcha up out of her high chair and swaggers out of Giles' kitchen with her half-slung across his shoulder like a giggling sack of laundry, "Now it's time for her nap." He says over his shoulder in a satisfied voice. "Mind cleaning up this mess pet? I'm all shagged out from mindin' the baby, and I don't think Giles' up to it."


	3. Maize: Redeye

The big manila envelope with the L.A postmark and no return address sat on the mantle in Giles' front parlor for a week before it migrated to the newel post of the front hall staircase in a pile of folded towels that somehow never managed to make it to the upstairs linen closet.

From there it sat on the front seat of the little red Mini you drive around London.

After a while it got jammed into the outer pocket of your handbag, next to the extra stake you keep in there "just in case".

Eventually it wound up in your 16 month old niece Sorcha's mouth, whereupon it was rescued by Giles, who handed it to you while saying, "You've had this for over a month. It's high time you opened it"

And you said, "Sure, whatever." as you took it from your Watcher on your way upstairs to your room, the one across from Sorcha's nursery, closed the door behind you, and tossed it onto the bedside table en route to the shower.

After you dried your hair and did your nails, including your toes, in Seduction Pink, you picked up the envelope and almost slit it open with a nail file.

But first you needed to go back downstairs and get a diet Pepsi, which meant that you had to nuke a bag of popcorn from the stash mailed to you once a month as part of the care package you get from your aunt Dorrie in L.A…

_Oh yeah, right, the envelope._

You tear it open before flopping down onto your bed, trying not to be disappointed while across the passage Giles reads Sorcha a story as Sorcha attempts to eat the book.

The envelope isn't from Angel.

Not that you expected it to, right?

The two of you… well, let's just say there's been words and misunderstandings and a whole lot of icky water under the bridge, and anyway, that was old history and old history is boring, right?

No, it was just a little pile of photographs folded up in a piece of Wolfram and Hart stationery and it smelled like cigarettes, which meant it came from Spike, someone you really don't want back into your life, well, not in _that_ way, you know what I mean? And not as a friend either and no more sweaty games, you were way over that a long time ago, no use going there, it was only physical anyway and you've got better things to do than to relive the slow-motion car crash complete with spurting arteries and broken glass that had been you and William the Bloody.

Still, pictures… what kind of pictures would Spike be sending?

_Knowing Spike, it's pictures of his… Don't go there, O.K.? _

You spend a few minutes drinking Pepsi and savoring the popcorn you brought back upstairs with you. The pictures slip to the floor and fan out across the carpet as you try to collect your thoughts.

_Damn! Even if it's not, I should throw these away without looking at them._

As you pick them up one by one, you look at them anyway after reading the note that says, "Toss 'em if you don't want 'em." in Spike's childlike left-handed scrawl.

You pause, frowning at the first picture before turning it around and around, puzzled.

It's a pale pinkish blob with two dark eyes in it.

_O.K., so Spike's taken up Un-nature photography and is now taking pictures of some new demon?_

Then you realize that it's his nose; just the like every roll of film your grampy Summers ever took when you were little. Grampy would load the film into the camera. Then he'd say, "Is this thing working?" as he squinted into the lens and then "Pop!" the flash would go off. Nobody really cared though; pictures from family events were incomplete without at least one image of Grampy's nose, all up-close and personal.

_So vampires do that too. Huh._

You slide the out of focus nasal self-portrait to the back of the stack you now hold in one hand as you stand in the middle of your room.

The next one's of Sorcha, with the lavender polka-dotted wallpaper that Willow INSISTED Sorcha needed and Xander hung one long rainy Easter while Spike, who showed up without warning jeered at him for hanging everything crooked, and you spent two nights stalking a Jkak demon through Hyde Park, in the background. Sorcha's suspended in midair with her pink footie pajamas all scrunched up under her arms, and there's a cheap little digital camera also in midair, a little to the left.

_And hey, everything looks backwards. What's up with that_

Then you realize that the picture is not of Sorcha and the camera but of their reflection in the big full-length antique mirror that Giles gave your niece as a birthday gift last year.

_Ah, I get it! I don't like it, but I get it._ _Wanna bet the next one's…_

You were right, the one after that has a lot of Spike's arm in it, receding in the distance and his thumb's covered half of the image. Past the thumb, he's got Sorcha balanced on one arm and he's leaning back as far as he can go while Sorcha has tangled both little hands in his hair which is standing on end in clumps, having been "toddlered".

He'd been trying to take pictures of him and your little niece, but the mirror hadn't been the way to go. So he'd given up on the mirror for obvious reasons and instead held the camera out at arm's length and taken his chances.

You sit back down on your bed.

_He must have taken these when the rest of the house was asleep._

Another picture, again at arm's length, is of the two of them sitting on the front steps of Giles' house, taken with a flash - their eyes glow bright red.

Redeye aside, the thumb'd been left out of the picture this time and Spike had rescued his hair from Sorcha who looks extremely unhappy about it.

_How did he get past the wardlocks? He is so dead. No, wait, Spike's already dead, encore! Encore!_

In growing anger and incredulity, you leaf through the pictures of an illicit, midnight romp involving your niece and one of your least savory exes.

There's one of the two of them sitting on the hood of your mini. Spike's got a gym bag with "Property of Manchester United" stenciled on the side over one shoulder. A baby bottle peeps out of it, as does Sorcha's lovingly abused teddy bear. Sorcha's wearing a tiny "Clash" concert t-shirt over her pajamas and a matching hat jammed down over her eyes.

The next is of them in the little park down the street. Followed by one of them standing at the bus stop two blocks over.

_Oh dear God!_

This one was obviously taken on the roof of the omnibus, followed by some taken at the London Zoo of them standing next to a sleeping elephant, and then some penguins.

After that came one taken in some pub or other, with a pint beside Spike who's got an unlit cigarette in his mouth while Sorcha gnaws on a mangled looking lolly.

_You. Are. So. Dead. Re-dead…whatever!_

Furious, you shuffle past images of the two of them with Big Ben all lit up for the night in the background, of them on the subway, no the _tube_, and then standing next to a flash-illumined street sign that reads "Portobello Road". There's even a couple with some of the more law-abiding demons of London standing next to them with various familiar London landmarks in the background. These look like someone else took them.

Anyway, nobody's eyes are glowing red any more – somebody must have shown Spike the redeye function on the little camera. After that comes one with Sorcha mouthing a piece of fried fish, with a French fry, no a _chip_, gripped in her other fat little hand while Spike holds more fried fish bundled up in a newspaper.

_You are so even more dead. Spike, don't you dare set foot on this island again or I'll…wait, what's this? _

But it's not the picture of Sorcha asleep and draped Spike's shoulder, nor is it the one of her lying in her crib with her thumb in her mouth that's giving you pause.

The final picture is odd.

You stand up again

_Oh._

Really, _really_ odd.

_Huh?_

You sit down again.

It's another arm's length picture, and Spike's got it right this time. He's looking at you or he would be except he must have blinked or something because his eyes are closed. His free hand's holding someone else's.

_Cordy?_

Cordelia's eyes are closed and there's a tube in her nose and monitors all around her.

_Yeah, right, forgot about her – forgot about Wes telling me that the former Queen of Mean's little more than a manicured pot roast minus the carrots and potatoes._

Anger forgotten, you sit cross-legged on your bed in your bathrobe, hugging yourself, the branch outside your window lightly tapping on the glass. Cordy never woke up from the "accident" that everyone tells you she had not long after she turned her back on Sunnydale and slithered off to L.A. in search of fame and fortune only to… to… for all his faults, surely Angel wouldn't let Spike… you look at the picture again "Ewwww- oh!"

There's a little half smile on Spike's face, one you've never seen before, at least not when the two of you were doing the back dance atop the Hellmouth.

…

…

…

Well, anyway, you keep the pictures.

Even the self-portrait of Spike's nostrils and the one of him and… Cordy?

Whatever that means.


	4. Orchid: 'Allo Pet!

I have got. 

The best.

Girlfriend.

In the world.

If you don't believe me, come meet her.

How did we meet? That two hundred and fifty pound bundle of self-imposed misery Peaches called me to his office like he owns the bloody place and says to me, "Spike, I have a job for you."

So I says, "Yeah, what is it this time? Helpin' the hopeless get more helpless?"

And he says, "Shut up Spike."

I gives him the double fingered salute, "I'll do it, the job, not the shuttin' up, but it'll cost you."

Old gloom and doom gives me the stinkeye but he says anyway: "Every week I go down to the a certain room in the company infirmary and deliver a bouquet in person. This week I can't and it's none of your business why."

"Yeah," I says back and light up next to the "No Smoking" sign just to wank him off, "I'll do it, but it'll cost you."

"Spike, remember that dent you put in the Toronado last night? When you deliberately rammed it into that Humvee in Laurel Canyon for no real reason when you were supposed to be on stakeout at L.A. International? Instead of beating it out of your rank hide like I should, how about you deliver that bouquet like a good boy and I'll overlook how much it'll cost this firm to have the dents pounded out and the lawsuit dropped."

Fair enough, fair enough - though the hummer was being driven by...never you mind. As I was sayin', I took the job but not without at least two more double fingered salutes and Peaches throwin' a paperweight at my head which dented his nice Executive wall because I've always been a better ducker than he ever was a chucker.

Harmony, the cow, gives me the bouquet and more stinkeye just like what Peaches gave me. What I do now?

Seems nothin'. Ever since me and the blonder of the two Slayers got it on and shagged a house down and Harm heard about it, she's been ridin' me bum ever since.

Sod her, I was wantin' to tell you about my new bint.

'S brilliant! Now why didn't I think of that before? Cordelia - yeah, Peaches still feels responsible for her bein' that way, all coma-ish, but if you ask me, she brought it on herself; should have kept her legs crossed and Connor-me-lad would never have planted somethin' that shoulda been Jasmine but came out like stinkweed, homicidal stinkweed, that puts your's truly to shame in his unchipped and unsouled glory days.

'S too late for that.

So I drop a few floors and deliver the bouquet, not that she's in any condition to notice even if I set the bed on fire with her in it. Waste of money in my opinion, that weekly bouquet. Should spend the money on a lace negligee, arrange her all pretty like one of Dru's dolls...did I mention she's a looker? on that bed.

I'm ready to leave but the nurse, seems Peaches neglected to call ahead to warn them that the Big Bad was comin' in his place and everyone should head for cover no tellin' what he'll do! has the bloody cheek to tell me, _me!_ that I just can't leave that poor girl alone; I need to sit with her and talk to her for at least an hour before I go, Angel's orders.

_"Well, sod you Peaches!_" I says, but I sit down, and she adds, "You should also hold her's hand, she's aware enough to notice it.

'Magine that. So I takes one of her pasty hands in mine, needs a manicure, leave it to Peaches to give a girl a bouquet when what she really needs is a bit of a file and polish! And the monitor she's hooked up to, her heart speeds ever so little bit. I drops it, it slows down. I picks it up, it speeds up. Fun! Then bitch nurse says, "Make up your mind, Mr. Spike, and stop teasing the patient!"

I nearly tells Nursie to sod off but she's out before I can. So I sits down in the chair, wondering what to say.

So I tells Cordy about me new niece. And I shows her the pictures Buffy sent me. Sorcha, Hell of a name, sounds like somethin' you scrape off the bottom of a saucepan you forgot and left on the boil too long - says it's _Irish_, Gawd, those _Irish_! to please Peaches, not that he's noticed being too busy tryin' to be a plaything of fate and failing miserably... Why couldn't Buffy have given the kid a decent, _English_ name that you can pronounce, like _Susan_? I mean, something you can at least spell! Can't wait for the poor lit'l girl's first day in Kiddie Garden. I'll bet you four out of five that the teacher gets it wrong every time and the kids call her Scorch!

What? Since when did Cordelia become my girl? That day.

I says to me, "Spike lad, you've had bugger all luck with women. Dru was crazy as a bedbug, but aside from that particular delicious charm she was fickle and used your heart like a dartboard every chance she got. Darla told you you were dirt and that she didn't "do" dirt when you made her an offer after Angelus got his soul back and did a runner. Harmony doesn't count, and Buffy took what Dru left behind and used it as a doormat even after you tried to give her everything. Now here's a bird what can't do that.

I mean, what have you got to lose?

It's not like she's going to get up and run off with some sticky-boogery Chaos demon, she's in a fuckin' coma!

She can't whine that you never take her anywhere, except for that one time, she hasn't said a word since you got here, she's in a fuckin' coma!

She can't drink up all your Bourbon or steal your smokes; she's in a fuckin' coma!

She'll listen to everything you say without interruptin' half a dozen times: she's in a fuckin' coma!

You bring her a prezzie? It's always the right shape, size, style, color or blood type - how would she know of it's not? She's in a fuckin' coma!

You'll always know where she is, she can't run off on you because she's in a...yeah, where was I goin' with this?

So I sits there, and she's a looker, even with that tube stickin' out of her stomach ruinin' the lines of her hospital gown. Smells like hell though. So I goes through her nightstand and hey, someone gave her perfume, Dolche and Gabana or summat like that. Ain't Chanel #5 by a long shot, but it cut the smell in half.

Her hair needs combin' so I improve the view.

Face looks kind of bare, so I slap a fresh coat of paint on that too.

Nowwwww don't you start sayin' "Why Spikey, we didn't know you was some sort of poofter? How many pretty frocks _do_ you own?"

Well sod off! Your bird can't see herself in the mirror but wants to look good and you got to look at her anyway? You learn the tricks, mate, you learn the tricks - or she winds up a fright even out of vamp face. I took good care of my Drusilla for over a hundred years, from beestung lips to beehive hair-dos (God, now there was a real hair _don't!_) and she never had any complaints. Dru did likewise for me, so bugger off!

Anyway, she's looking pretty good there, almost like one of us, so I does her nails - somebody had given her a couple of bottles of nail varnish. I does her toes, too. Nothin' fancy, just tasteful.

Soon the hour's up and the nurse chases me out. But she thanks me for staying and for "interactin" with my Cordy.

Already decided she was mine 'bout the time I started curlin' her hair with the curling iron. Right? Right!

So I slips Nursie a couple hundred dead presidents and tells her to see to it that my Cordy gets her face washed and moisturized and her clothes changed so she's not in those gowns all the time. The ones with the open back and no shape whatsoever.

And I comes back the next mornin' and gives her a dress, a long one that covers up those soddin' pressure bandages. But they won't let me put it on her, "It's not allowed, We'll do it for you."

I'm a bit pissed, but I let 'em. I was right, it fit. Then I does her hair and makeup.

After a few weeks of this they let me help feed her - ugly business with tubes, and massage her legs after I read that physical therapy manual I nicked from the nurse's station (_Bloody hell that was boring - the things we do for love!_)... and other things... nothin' nasty mind you, our Cordy is a lady, remember?

On the days Peaches comes, I just lay low in my suite. He's got his head so far up his own arsehole that he doesn't notice how good my girl been lookin' lately, right pet? And it's nothing but the best for my girl. Even had a hair dresser come in from Rodeo. He owed me a favor, or it would have cost a bundle; it was worth it. I think I can do what that ponce did, didn't like him touchin' my girl even if he is queer as a purple elephant at the North Pole. Sometimes they get curious and "cross the line" if you catch my drift.

Soooooo, what does Spike get out of it? A girlfriend who listens to him and won't run off when he disappoints her.

And a right looker too. Wish I could show my dark beauty off, but they won't let me take her out of the building. The two of us would look right smart on the street, lookin' at the shops, me buyin' her prezzies...god, I hope she never wakes up.

Because when she does, she'll hate me like all the others, even the ones that don't count.


	5. Cotton Candy: Tangled Up In Blue

Looking for a place to hide the party favors for Sorcha's birthday party, you open the door to Giles' guest bedroom and catch sight of Spike sitting on the bed, sliding a hypo into the soft skin of his inner elbow. 

"What the hell are you doing?" You scream at him, dropping the little toys in their bright wrappings as you slam the door shut behind you with a bang, "I know stuff like that won't kill you. You're already dead. But to bring it into my house, to shoot up where Sorcha might see you? Leave, leave _now!_" You bear down on him, furious. It was bad enough that he'd as usual shown up without warning after sundown last night only this time with Cordelia, Cordelia's wheelchair, Cordelia's fifteen-piece designer luggage set, and a bag of gifts for Sorcha that has your little niece in a loud tizzy because she has to wait until tomorrow to open them, but this is too much.

Spike looks up at you as he works the plunger. His blue eyes glaze over, their pupils huge in the bright overhead light. His mouth works, and then a long, slow shudder runs through his entire body as a thin film of sweat coats his face.

You pause, both appalled and fascinated, your anger at having your home invaded while you were trying to prepare for tomorrow morning's party, at Wyndham-Price frantically calling you at 2 am trying to find Cordelia because she's missing from her room at the Watcher's private hospital in L.A. and Spike isn't answering his pager, of seeing Sorcha sitting in Cordelia's lap while Cordelia French braided her hair this morning after breakfast when you didn't have time for such luxuries, all temporarily forgotten.

He shakes his head violently, gasps, pulls out the syringe, and says, "Buffy, 's not what it looks like." The band around his knotted upper arm flies free with a snap, landing on the floor near his feet.

"I don't believe you!" Disgusted you begin tossing paraphernalia into the open leather case that rests next to him on the bed. "Out. Now. And take this, this… this _crap_ with you!" You snatch the syringe from his hand, snapping it in half before it joins the rest of the contraband.

In a startling burst of speed Spike grabs your wrists.

They're warm.

He smirks up at you, "Haven't been a channel swimmer since '52, pet. Bloody well quit because Dru needed a minder and not some vegetable happily droolin' on himself while sittin' in a puddle of his own piss."

You try to disengage, but Spike's holding you in such a way that you can't get any leverage short of kicking him in the balls. You're not quite ready to go that far so you relax slightly, "Then what the hell is it then?"

Freeing one hand, Spike picks up a vial and waves it in your face. You catch a glimpse of the name of one of the doctors attached to the Council printed on the label.

_"Insulin?" _

"Gets me past the Customs wankers," he smirks, before tossing it back into the case, "Easier than saying, 'I'm dead mate, and need a hit.' Just say 'I'm insulin dependant' and they'll forgive you pract'ally ennythin'."

"Since when?"

"Since Wes found Fred's notes after she died."

"Notes?" Confused you pause as swallowing heavily he stands up. You knew Spike was strong, but the speed, the… warmth?

"Smart and skinny, she noticed things. Things that…" Spike suddenly releases you. You stumble back against the Cordy cluttered dresser, rubbing your wrists. He looks down between his feet at the floor, wavering ever so slightly. "Before Illyria, well _before_ Illyria killed her trying to manifest, our Fred… took samples."

You'd heard of Fred, though you'd never met. "Samples?"

"Blood." He quickly looks away.

"O.k., Fred drew blood. So what?" You pick up a tiny bottle of something expensive by Dolce and Gabbana, turning it over and over in your hands before spritzing some on yourself.

"Fred caught me jolly popping, you know… _sipping_."

"Joll… sipping?"

"You know, took some off of someone who was… don't ask! There was a car accident, they were already dead, I was hungry, it wasn't worth it. Fred caught me, I stopped, end of story, all right?" Spike glances sidelong at you while absently scratching at the visibly fading needle track and rocking back and forth on his heels, "Didn't kill anybody, pet. I just… sipped. It's not unusual, I've done it before."

"That's disgusting!"

"Buffy!" He snarls at you, and then catches himself, "Buffy, _you don't know what it's like_."

"What, looking at people like walking Frappacinos?"

"It's more than that and you know it."

The two of you stare each other down for a long time. You hear cars out on the street, and Cordelia watching _Tweenies_ downstairs with Sorcha. Giles is practicing children's songs on his guitar out in the garden for tomorrow's party.

Finally Spike closes his eyes before saying "Buffy, it's like, it's like your first time bumpin' uglies every time… it's everything. It's life. Pig's blood or even donated human plasma is like… wearing a condom." He opens his eyes, leans hipshot with arms folded against the wall before hooking his thumbs in his belt and adds with a suggestive half leer, "Not that _I_ would know."

"All right, what did Fred 'notice'?" You cross your own arms.

"That I got faster, smarter and meaner. Then I crashed five hours later, got the shakes; like goin' cold turkey." He pauses, "Same thing happened to me when they put that soddin chip in my head, same as what happened when the soddin' First got hold of me… remember that time when I went through a wall to grab Andrew? I'm not the only one; I've seen Angelus do it on short rations, same with Darla. Dru too, fast and hard. Scared the hell out of me the first time it happened to me."

"Oh."

"Animal blood isn't enough, never has been." Spike pushes himself away from the wall and starts pacing, his movements gaining in grace and speed, "Buffy, do you know what its like being next to you? Or walking down a crowded street? I hear hearts beating, and I want to stalk, to chase, to feed even after I've had my fill of animal blood, but this damned soul of mine won't let me. It's worse than the soddin' chip ever was!"

"And Fred?"

"Fred discovered that dead blood, animal blood, is missing something. She cooked up this stuff - I don't know what's in it. All I know is: I do up, I feel better." He stops pacing long enough to glance out the window behind the heavy drapes, "I take a hit around sundown and things go clear again even though it burns like hell. It's what lets me be comfortable around Cordy - around anybody for that matter. It's what keeps Angel from staking me. That and the soul." He releases the heavy fabric, crosses his arms, and looks at you; challenging you to say something, anything.

"How's it feel now?"

Spike runs a hand over his face, briefly covering his eyes, "Everything tastes like rust. Just wish Fred'd lived long enough for me to thank her, is all." He moves the curtains again and looks out. Sundown stains his face red; he keeps licking his lips and swallowing.

"You loved Fred, didn't you?" You try not to be jealous.

_Why be jealous when what the two of us once had wasn't love, but two drowning people dragging each other down?_

"Fred was… very kind to me when I… when I came _back_." Spike says cautiously, "I had no-one, and she... stuck up for me in a couple of bad patches when nobody else would because I wasn't welcome." His voice thickens slightly and he turns his face from you. "Fred was what Dru could have been had I gotten to her before Angelus and Darla did – crazy as a bedbug, but not all broken inside. And I let her die. I couldn't stop Illyria from taking over and killing her – Peaches and me, we tried, but it wasn't enough." Spike finally looks at you, as he unrolls a pack of unfiltered Camels from his sleeve and lips one out without lighting it. "Who am I fooling? Fred loved too many already - there wasn't any room left for me in her heart."

"Does Cordy know about Fred?"

"Our Cordy remembers Fred as somebody she met a long time ago while on the vacation from Hell when she's not mixing her up with Willow. Her memory's getting better all the time, but I think being in a coma did something to her mind. She needs me, Buffy. Someday, when she doesn't need me any more, it'll be just the same as it was with Dru, with you…" Looking uncomfortable, Spike abruptly removes the cigarette from his mouth and fiddles with it before tucking it behind one ear and smoothing his bleached-out hair. "That's the way it always is, innit? I took good care of her while Peaches sat ten floors up in his posh office at Wolfram and Hart with his head jammed up his arse with guilt. Fella's gotta have something to do with his spare time - I got a lot of that." He laughs, just a little, before adding, "And yeah, Cordy knows about this." He gestures at the elastic band on the floor, "She's never asked me what it's for and I don't feel like telling her all my dirties; not yet anyway."

_I don't like Cordelia, but she deserves to know that her knight in shining armor may be one hypo away from tearing her throat out._

"You need to tell her everything soon. You owe her at least that much."

"Sod off Buffy. I'll tell her in my own good time, which if I can help it, is never." He picks up the case, drops in the band, and zips it shut before locking it in the bedside table drawer and pocketing the key. "Don't want the Platelet to get into it, pure poison, it is."

"Is Angel…" You pause at the name, "Taking this stuff?"

Spike gives you one of his patented disgusted looks compounded of one part 'I can't believe you had to ask' and two parts 'Are you really this stupid?' before replying, "Peaches won't touch it. Rather sit in his room at the L.A. Center with the lights off listening to scratchy Manilow records since he cut his ties to W&H. Soddin' waste of time if you ask me. Could be out killin' things, ah - _evil_ things - right? Could be livin', right? Not our Peaches, he'd rather sulk! 'Oooooh, I gotta soul! Oooooh, I've done bad things! Ooooooh, I _failed_!'" Now Spike's in your face and you didn't see him cross the room. There's a snarl and something else in his voice. "Rather let me do all the work. Rather let the world go right past him. Rather let strangers take care of our Cordy than deal with what's outside his own door. Rather let our Sorks have another birthday and miss it so good ol' Spikey has to do everything for him, _bloody pouf!_" You duck as he slams both fists into the wall on either side of the mirror that shows only you. The muscles in his arms are standing out so distinctly it almost looks like he's been skinned.

"Spike, stop it!"

"I told you to sod off, Buffy!" Spike snarls, but he pulls his fists out of the shattered lathe and plaster and jams his bleeding hands into his back pockets.

There's a knock on the door, "Is everything all right in there?"

"Knocked over the bedside lamp, Giles." You call back trying not to cough on the cloud of plaster dust that's now drifting around the two of you.

"Of course." Giles isn't buying, but he's polite about it. "Cordelia wishes to know if she and Spike may join us this evening when we go out to purchase Sorcha's new birthday dress and have dinner afterwards."

_Dress? What dress? Oh God, I forgot, the dress! _

Yesterday Giles promised Sorcha a new dress to wear to her birthday party if she didn't pick any fights with the other little girls at the London Center preschool for one whole day. Surprisingly, Sorcha didn't so much as yank another pigtail or call anybody a "poopy head" while biting them today; probably because Faith's been out all week on assignment in the Ukraine.

_I am so not up to this: an ex-non best friend and an ex boyfriend plus a sugared-up two year old because Spike's been feeding her jelly babies all afternoon after pre-school behind my back and denying it, crammed into Giles' itty-bitty Mini in London traffic with Giles telling me how to drive on top of it all - never mind that I finally got my license after three tries and a fender bender involving a phone booth and a sheep? No. Way. In. Hell._

"Giles," you say, "I'm not done getting the house ready for tomorrow's party. You guys go on. Have a good time."

"We will be leaving in half an hour should you change your mind, Buffy."

Spike lets out a derisive snigger while sucking on a bloodied knuckle. You grab his wrist and pull his hand away from his mouth, "Don't do that, it's gross!"

"No worse than a lollie for the likes of me." Spike's calmed down. There's a rare humorous glint in his eyes and his hair's starting to stick out in all directions; he's ready to play nice.

Maybe.

"So you won't be coming then?" he adds innocently with one eyebrow quirked.

"I wouldn't. Not even if you offered to set me on fire for free."

* * *

If someone had told you back in High School that one day you'd be helping wedge the Queen of Mean into the loo of a London curry palace so small that they had to move three tables just to get her wheelchair in the front door, you would have laughed in their face. 

_I only got the job because this is the one place she won't let Spike help her. "Sweetie, cool it. Some things a girl just has to do on her own. Buffy, follow me." Grrrr, Cordy hasn't changed one bit!_

After supporting Cordy across the restaurant floor, into the loo, and onto the toidy crammed in the tiny facility you close the door, turn your back and try fix your makeup in the tiny mirror over the dribbly fauceted sink because when you tried to leave, Cordelia panicked, afraid to be left alone even in the loo. So, while Cordy fusses with her skirt, you find yourself remembering the rare times you and Willow slipped out of the library to try on new shades of lip-gloss when you should have been studying demony stuff. Willow was predictably reluctant, but you could always talk her into it. Sometimes Cordy and her pack would intrude and the two of you would shut up, standing off to one side, ready to snipe back, an inevitability that left you feeling victorious whenever you managed to outbitch Queen C.

Now Bitcherella thinks you're her best friend and not Harmony. You could use your real best friend for moral support right now, but Willow's busy setting up housekeeping with Xander out in the English countryside in some decrepit old farmhouse that should keep his inner contractor deliriously happy for at least a decade. You'd like to call them to let them know that Cordelia's arrived, but the last thing you need this evening is Xander exploding at the sight of Spike pushing Cordy around in a wheelchair and picking up after her. You'll deal with it tomorrow when they come to help you and Giles celebrate Sorcha's birthday party along with Faith, if she gets back in time, and the two little girls from the Slayer center preschool that are Sorcha's current best friends.

Even if you had invited them to join you tonight, Cordy isn't interested in anything that happened to anybody after she left Sunnydale for L.A. She tries to concentrate when you tell her about Dawn and Glory or The First; but she can't focus for long. Maybe Spike was right, the coma did do something to her mind.

_But then again, since when did Cordelia ever pay attention to anything that didn't pertain to Cordelia?_

As far as Cordy's concerned, Sorcha's her niece, you're her half sister from her dad's first marriage and that you both used to spend your summers together on Catalina Island or something. Angel's an old boyfriend of yours, nice but too broody for words, that she once did part-time secretarial work for while waiting for her big break in Hollywood. Wes is just some guy. Connor who? Dawnie ditto, when she isn't the annoying little stepsister getting into her makeup! Giles is still the high school librarian that she owes a big fat fine to. Xander's still on her mind but in a good way; she can't wait to see him, and how about that wacky Willow? Real brainiac, but a dead loss in the clothing department…

"What about your boyfriend?"

"I don't have a honey."

"Yes you do," you say as you touch up your mascara, "What about the weirdo with the peroxide fixation that won't go away?"

"Oh, William?

_Huh? Warn me next time Queen C, I nearly put my eye out with the brush!_

"He's just some hottie I met in the hospital. He says he used to go out with you until you dumped him. Boy, were you dumb, he's great! We're just good friends - but I think he's gay. Maybe he was just trying you on for size to see what he was missing and he dumped you because it wasn't worth the switch? I mean, _hello!_ He's a _guy_ and he knows how to _dress_ himself without his _mother's_ help."

_If only Spike, I mean William, could hear us now…_ "Do you know what he is?"

"Vampire, all bitey fangy grrrr, no reflections. But he's got a soul and all that – if you ask me, he's way more fun than that Angel guy. Good thing you dumped that loser. I mean, a real hottie to look at but MAJOR BORING NO-FUN BROODFEST HERE!"

_She barely remembers the last five years of her life but she can accept vampires like she would a copy of Vogue magazine on her coffee table. Oh God, what did that Jasmine-chick do to her? _

"How do you know he's gay?"

"Who?"

"Your slave, you know, short, pale and gruesome!" You start combing your hair.

"He's _not_ my boyfriend. God knows I've been sending out signals but he just ain't receivin'. "

_I don't believe you. Spike with a female body, living or dead under the age of thirty in the same room? Not only that but one unable to flee at the first sign of danger?_

"Then," you ask casually, "What was all that rumpity-bumpity, soft music and smell of pretty candles coming out of the guest room about last night? Thanks to you two sex-bunnies I had to field a lot of embarrassing questions from Sorcha who wanted to know, 'Why Aunt Cordy cryin' like dat?' and 'Where Unca Spi? He pwomise he read!'"

Long silence from Cordelia.

Long, long silence from Cordelia.

"Physical therapy." She finally replies in a very small, quiet voice. "It hurts. It hurts a lot. The candles and the music help me pretend that I'm at some expensive spa, and not.. and not... and not s-s-s-some…" Cordelia makes a loud, gulping noise.

You turn around, banging knees with your guest thanks to the cramped space of the loo. Big fat tears are silently rolling down either side of her nose in a lava trail of molten eyeliner. You can't help but stare.

_Jeepers! I didn't think Cordy could "do" tears._

"Why didn't they just let me die? Sometimes I think I'm being punished for doing something bad, but I don't remember what it was. It's not fair." Her voice is steady, level, like she's discussing the latest _Spiegel_ catalog. "I have a huge ugly scar on my tummy from the feeding tube they shoved into me so I'll never wear a bikini again even if I could afford cosmetic surgery and now one leg's shorter than the other and that foot turns in - I can't even walk across the room by myself without falling over." Cordy drops her head and starts to sob with her panties around her ankles and her royal blue cashmere skirt rucked up around her now emaciated hips, beautifully manicured hands dangling limply at her sides. "I know daddy's in prison for not paying his taxes, and so is mom, but what about grandma and grandpa? Not even a letter, or a get-well card or a bouquet? They're ashamed of me because I'm _hideous!_"

Cordy starts falling over sideways and you catch her, your comb clattering to the cracked linoleum. She quavers as you try to steady her, "The nurses say out of my whole family only you came to see me. So did that Angel guy when he could, but he's not family so he doesn't count. William isn't family, I have no idea who he is, but he came every day and helped them take care of me… If it hadn't been for him massaging and stretching my legs every day for hours after the physical therapist finished for the day, I'd look like a croquet hoop!"

The Nastiest Girl in Sunnydale is now clinging to you, face buried in your blouse and you're getting a cramp in your legs from kneeling there next to the stool. "He did my nails and my hair, he kept me pretty. He even tried to hide how bad I smelled, and I don't remember who he is. He tells me that we met a long time ago. Wouldn't I have remembered someone that nice?"

_Oh wow, she really is crazy._

Cordy goes on, "William is so considerate, he takes care of everything. He takes me for walks at night and I feel safe with him. What can you tell me about him? Do you know what he likes? Why doesn't he like me in that way if he's not gay? It's only because he feels sorry for me – who'd want someone who looks like me? Why did you break up with such a great guy?"

You start to say, "Because we were eating each other alive, that's why." But before you can, Cordy's already off and rambling again as if you're not even there.

_How did mom do it? How did she put up our hysterics and stay sane?_

"William even sneaks me into the therapy Jacuzzi at night so I don't have people staring at me. The water feels good, but I look at myself in the mirror, wearing that dowdy old one-piece, and I know why he isn't taking my hints. Daddy was right, nobody wants an ugly girl. I'm sorry daddy, I didn't mean to disappoint you!" Cordy starts crying even harder.

_Oh God!_

Cordelia's last statement hits you in the pit of the stomach like a fist, mercifully distracting you from the disturbing image of Spike in a Speedo, probably a black one.

_How could anybody be so… so… So damned mean? Dad was never like that. When he still loved us, when we were little, when I cut my hair with mom's pinking shears or that time on vacation when Dawnie got poison ivy on her face so bad she had to go to the doctor he never said anything like that, he just took me to the salon before mom got home from visiting Aunt Jennie in Wisconsin and poured calamine lotion on Dawnie. He called me his "Pinking Shear Princess" and Dawn the "Sultana of Scratch" which made her laugh, and left it at that._

You can almost forgive Cordy imperiously dragging everyone from Harrods's to Harvey Nichols' and back until the "right" dress was found for Sorcha. The whole thing pissed you off so much that you nearly grabbed your niece and took a cab home; the dresses you thought were appropriate, the little matching shoes, hats and purses – every last one just got pointedly disdainful looks from Cordy while Giles and Spike fidgeted in the background before fleeing to the nearest pub to avoid getting caught up in the estrogen fireworks. Now you know why and it pisses you off even more.

"I'm sorry daddy, I didn't mean to get ugly…"

Someone knocks on the door.

_Thank God._

"Oy, you two all right in there or should I send in a rescue party?"

You glance at your watch. It's been almost half an hour.

Cordy takes a deep breath and says levelly as her makeup slides down her face, "Just girl talk, William."

"Right." Spike pauses before adding, "Can you two bloody well heart to heart someplace else? Platelet's about to burst and _I_ don't want to clean up the mess."

"Wanna wazz! Wanna wazz! Wanna wazz! Wanna wazz! Wanna wazz!" Sorcha yells as she drums on the door in time to her demands. Giles must be having a cow right about now from embarrassment. Thank God the youngest of the owner's six daughters is a Slayer-in-Training and coming to Sorcha's birthday party tomorrow or he would have banned you last year.

"That's enough O+. Let's give the nice ladies ten more minutes - then we kick the door down, right? I'll let you get in the first kick if you sit still and stop flicking peas at the waiter. You can flick all the peas you like at Giles though; I'll give you mine." Spike's voice trails off with distance as he drags your niece away from the door.

Cordy pulls herself together as if none of the last half hour has happened. She leans against the sink while she repairs her face, which forces you to stand on the toidy. You watch her reflection in the mirror, thinking. Finally you come to a decision.

_If it works, they'll keep each other out of my hair. And if things go bad, oh God, ugh! I'll be in the next room and close enough to break things up. I am such a bitch!_

Feeling evil, you say casually while teetering on the seat in your good heels, "Tonight, while Spike, I mean _William's_ working on your legs? Bite his ear. Hard."

* * *

After putting Sorcha to bed and reading to her for nearly an hour, you lie in the dark trying not to listen to what's going on in the guest bedroom that shares a wall with yours after Spike carried Cordy upstairs and closed the door behind them as usual. 

It starts out with the usual moans and the occasional yelp followed by a soothing murmur.

That's therapy. It has to be.

This goes on for a while until you hear without warning a loud, "Ow, hey!"

The moaning stops.

Soon you hear the rhythmic bouncing of old-fashioned bedsprings.

You turn on the bedside radio and wrap your pillow around your head. No luck.

Eventually the slow smell of cigarette smoke ghosts into your room.

Feeling more than a little ambivalent about the whole thing, you doze off.


	6. Lavender: Queer Eye for the Demon Guy

All it took was a call to Lorne: "Lorne, remember that show..."

"Of course, pussycat, _that_ show..."

"I have an idea..."

"Fire away, Cordy-kitten!"

After hearing you out, Lorne made a call.

The person Lorne called, made a call of his own.

And _they_ showed up.

Complete with makeup kits, swatches and a production team.

They tittered. They giggled. They posed.

They took over the bungalow you and your lover share.

They took over the look of your lover.

His look was dated.

How... how _90s_!

He was pissed.

You reasoned that he'd get over it.

He'd even thank you for it.

Eventually.

So you fled to high ground, spending the week in Palm Springs, once more taking advantage of Lorne's connections because you never would have been able to afford this much exclusive happiness on your own.

You come back all refreshed, seaweed wrapped, acupunctured, and pedicured.

A new woman.

You just knew what those wonderful "Queer Eye Guys" did for your lover would be, in a word, "fabboo".

Besides, wasn't it time William updated?

_OhmyGod, I can't wait!_

When you open the door, you are greeted by the smell of stale beer, cigarettes, and feet.

The tasteful new decor has been overwhelmed by British football posters, horse racing forms, and velvet tapestries of dogs playing poker.

The Sex Pistols bellow at you from the stereo while Manchester United push and shove their way across the screen of your television as one of your bras spins lazily overhead from the wobbling ceiling fan, which is now missing all but one paddle.

Over the pizza box-violated couch now hangs a sporadically flashing beer sign advertising Guiness and a dartboard big enough to use as a kitchen table with a top-heavy naked girl painted on it.

William slouches in a plaid recliner, its prolapsed stuffing barely held in check by duct tape.

Orange duct tape.

Eyes glued to the set, he's wearing nothing but frayed tighty whities and a pair of piss green socks with holes in the toes. One hand has slid under the elastic of those tighty whities beneath the bulge of the beginnings of a blossoming pot belly, and is luxuriously scratching.

Stubble decorates his face, there's a bald spot with two strands of hair half-heartedly pulled over it, and a pile of empties (blood and beer) surround the chair, along with empty White Castle boxes, blood bags, girlie magazines, used tissues, a dribbly bottle of hand lotion, and cigar butts.

Coughing your way through the blue haze, you scream, "What the hell is going on here?"

He calmly gargles at you around a bloodstained mouthful of potato chips and cheese doodles, "'Ere luv, go get us a beer, won't yer and give us a snog, eh?"

Numbly you pick your way into the kitchen, toenail clippings crunching underfoot. There are greasy boxes of half-eaten fried chicken on the counter and empty bean cans rolling around on the floor in a drifting haze of cigarette ashes. The refrigerator is indescribable, the sink a nightmare of dirty dishes, cockroaches, and floating butts in grey scummy water.

Flies circle the trashcan like bombers over Baghdad.

"Omygod, was that a rat? Ewwwww!"

In the living room, over the shriek and yammer of the entertainment center, William calls out, "Hey toots. C'mere an' pull me finger!" before giving out a long juicy smoker's hack that ends with something damp hitting the wall.

You flee the kitchen, coming to a screeching halt at the sight of the bedroom, the sheets smeared with brown stains, fermenting mounds of dirty socks and underpants everywhere. The toilet in the hall bathroom is making ominous rumbling noises while the shower drips non-stop behind a mildewed curtain.

He comes up behind you, puts his arms around your waist and gives you a wet, sloppy kiss with his stubbly face after belching long and loud in your ear. "Gotta stiffy, up for a shag?" You struggle, screaming because his teeth are stained, his breath smells like the wastebasket in a women's locker room on a hot day during "that time of the month" and his armpits stink.

You break away, panting, and face him. Your lover gives you a snaggletoothed half-demon grin, "If that's how you want it, Baby!" and reaches for you again.

His nails are ragged and chewed... his roots are showing... and (OhMyGod!) he just blew his nose on the floor... Somebody's going to pay for this! Back in Palm Springs, you saw the production tape Lorne sent you FedEx of the show... Where are the bright colors, the stylish up-to-date haircut, the... the... "Eeeeeeeeeeee! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"

You knock yourself unconscious on the floor when you trip over a trail of dirty, torn jeans and rotting sneakers.

A few hours later you wake up on the bed.

William looks down at you with a smug smile, chin out, thumbs defiantly hooked in the front of his belt in a hipshot pose.

He's back the way he's always been, face smooth, hair bleached and slicked back, dark red silk shirt over a black t-shirt like a second skin, nails enameled.

He's brushed his teeth.

He's back to his old, usual aftershave.

The place has been cleaned up.

The belly is gone.

So is the bald spot.

"Don't _ever_ do that to me again, pet."

He sits down next to you.

You just lie there, realizing that both of you have crossed one too many boundary lines.

"Don't ever do that to me again, William."

The both of you reach out toward each other; your warm hand held in his cool, dry one.

You stay that way for a long time, the antique Victorian brass alarm clock you gave him last year for Christmas last year steadily ticks in the background as the shadows of the trees play across the closed drapes.

Finally you say, "I'm sorry."

He looks at you while sucking at his cheeks, blue eyes inscrutable as the Siamese cat your mother had when you were little only because it matched the decor. Then he gives you a half smile, "If what I look like means that much to you, pet I'll let my hair grow out. All you had to do was ask."

"I'll help you take care of it."

"Fair enough."

And that's all it took.


	7. Thistle: Fairy Godfather

**1.**

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Sorcha, or Sorks, or sometimes "Scorch" depending on what kind of day she'd had. She had dark curly hair, big blue eyes, two cats named Steren and Sunniva, and a lot of weird relatives.

The only thing she didn't have was a puppy.

She spent a lot of time wishing for one: "I wanna puppy!"

Her aunt would say, "You already have two cats, Sorcha."

Sorcha would say, "Those are granddad Angel's cats."

Her aunt would say back, "You got me there, sweetie. Let me think about it."

(Which means in grownupspeak: "No puppy.")

**2.**

So, one evening, when all the potties but grandad's private one were broken in the big house that Sorcha lived in with her weird relatives, two of her weirder uncles were supposed to be watching her while all the other grown-ups did grown-up things.

Only these two uncles were too busy watching something called the "Superbowl" on television and eating junk food to watch Sorcha.

Bored, Sorcha sat on Uncle Clem's lap.

Uncle Clem was pink, had long floppy ears, and looked like someone had let most of the air out of him. Sorcha ate potato chips with him. She drank Diet Coke. She ate more potato chips. All the while, Uncle Clem tried to teach Sorcha when she should yell and when she shouldn't yell; it all had something to do with something called a "Touchdown" and some guy in a black and white striped shirt that Uncle Spike (her other weird uncle) said was a complete and total wanker and needed a white cane, whatever that meant.

Boooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggggggg!

So Sorcha climbed down off of Uncle Clem's lap with her doll Mehitabel under one arm in the usual hammerlock and climbed onto Uncle Spike's lap.

Sorcha hoped that sitting on Uncle Spike's lap would make this Superbowl thing, which was nothing more than a bunch of big boys in tight pants clobbering each other while chasing after a ball that looked like someone had sat on it, more interesting.

Wrong!

Sitting on Uncle Spike's lap with Mehitabel and eating spicy buffalo wings, Doritos, and drinking root beer while Uncle Spike drank grown-up beer didn't make this Superbowl thing any more interesting than sitting on Uncle Clem's lap with Mehitabel eating potato chips and drinking Diet Coke.

Anyway, Sorcha had to pee.

**3.**

Sorcha climbed down off of Uncle Spike's lap, who said without looking away from the Superbowl, "All right Sorks; but don't go too far. Your Aunt Buffy'll have my guts for garters if you wander off like you did last time." Then he tossed a handful of Doritos in his mouth still watching the tv.

"'K" Sorcha said as she and Mehitabel went into granddad's little bathroom which was just down the hall and was marginally more interesting than the Superbowl.

Well, sort of.

**4.**

Peeing done, Sorcha decided that she'd rather be a witch than watch the Superbowl, which was boooooooooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggg. So she went all over the house collecting stuff.

Mehitabel wan't much help. This was because magic doesn't interest ragdolls. She much preferred to lie in the middle of the hallway on the carpet missing one eye.

Anyway, Sorcha went into Uncle Wesley's special room which was full of books that you aren't supposed to color in and smelly old stuffed animals and got some glass jars of weird and stinky things.

You need weird and stinky things to be a witch. Otherwise it won't work.

She went into Uncle Giles' room with all the books that you aren't supposed to color in and old record albums that aren't for playing Frisbee with and got some more jars of weird and stinky things.

This is because when you're a witch, you need a _lot_ of weird and stinky things.

Sorcha would have gone into the kitchen to get a big pot – you also need a big pot to be a witch; weird and stinky things are not enough only the plumber-guys were busy tearing up the sink so Sorcha decided to use granddad's potty (which was just the right size to drop things in).

Sorcha knew this because when she was three, she flushed Uncle Spike's favorite lighter down the potty after granddad Angel told her that if she did, she would see all sorts of lovely bubbles in the bowl. The lighter didn't make any bubbles, but the fireworks that came afterwards were spectacular! They started with Uncle Spike blowing his nose on the back of granddad's shirt while granddad was still wearing it and ended with Aunt Buffy hitting both granddad and Uncle Spike over the head with chairs and yelling, "Stop it! I can't believe you two've lasted as long as you have!"

So if a potty could cause that many fireworks when one is three, it would make the best witch's pot, no, CAULDRON, in the world - when one is three and a half.

**5.**

Uncle Spike and Uncle Clem did not stop Sorcha when she carried all the weird and stinky things to granddad's little bathroom. They were too busy watching the Superbowl.

A witch does her best work in private. That's what Aunt Willow, who was also a little odd, once told her, so Sorcha locked the bathroom door behind her before she dropped half a jar of weird and stinky stuff into granddad's potty.

The water turned blue.

Boooooooooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggg. Potty water is always blue.

So Sorcha dropped in some more weird and stinky stuff from another jar.

It fizzed, which was slightly less boooooooooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggg.

When Sorcha dropped in even more weird and stinky stuff, the fizzy blue water turned hot pink and began to steam.

This was more like it!

Then Sorcha remembered that you have to say magic words. At a loss for any real magic words, she sang the ABC song at the top of her lungs and only got "s" and "t" reversed this time.

Sparks appeared, so she dumped in a jar of wet and squiggly things.

A rainbow splashed out of the potty and made a big stain on the ceiling, wow!

"Sorks, pet - you all right in there?" Her Uncle Spike was on the other side of the door.

"She's been in there an awful long time." Said Uncle Clem. "Oh dear, that Diet Coke ran right through me."

"Loo's broken all over the soddin' house. Can't go out the window like last time, Cordie nearly tore it off when she caught me at it. Sorks, pet, hurry up!"

"Go 'way!" Sorcha yelled, "Busy!" Then she sang "When you wish upon a star" – her favorite song. The potty began to really foam greatbigsmellybad.

"Sorks, pet, I'm gonna to count to five - you'd best not be playing in there!"

"No playing, I a witch!"

"Bloody hell! Stand back Clem, I'm going to break down the door!"

"Go 'way!" Sorcha was bored by all this; if being a witch meant all you did was turn the potty a lot of different colors than she'd rather play fort in the bathtub. So she slammed down the lid and climbed into the tub.

**6.**

Then two things happened: Uncle Spike broke down the bathroom door and the potty blew up.

It really blew up.

It blew up all over.

There was water everywhere.

Uncle Spike and Uncle Clem were squashed behind the door, which was now in the hall.

There was a man standing in all the water.

He was big.

He was tall.

He was wearing a rainbow colored tutu just like the one Sorcha wore every Friday for ballet lessons, only his was much, much bigger and looked like someone let their dog chew on it. He had on red and white striped tights with holes in the saggy knees and cowboy boots, and was wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped out and a naked lady tatto on one arm. He was also wearing a Budweiser hat and carried a wand that was sort of bent and missing one of the points off of the star at the top. He even wore a tool belt like Uncle Xander's. It had a big hammer on it.

Wow!

"Well there, sweet thang," the strange man said to Sorcha, "A'm youn's fairy godfather. Seem you'uns got three wishes comin' t' ya. Whatcha want li'l lady?"

**7.**

"You s'posed be lady!" Sorcha bellowed, offended. Fairy god-whatevers had to be ladies – Disney said so. Fairy Godmothers were ladies and wore pretty dresses and did not need to shave every five hours. What a rip off!

"That there's dee-scrimination, that is, li'l lady," the fairy godfather drawled, putting his hands down on his knees and looking her in the face. His breath smelled of beer and pork rinds, "E.O.E. says you cain't do that, discriminate."

Sorcha didn't know who E.O.E. was, but that was good enough for her. "'K." She said and sat on the edge of the big metal bathtub that stood there in the bathroom on its own four lion's feet, and swung her legs.

Behind the fairy godfather, Uncle Clem and Uncle Spike were groaning and trying to get off of each other and out from under the door, which was on the floor. Sorcha learned some delicious new badbad words just listening to them.

"Now there, li'l bit, lay them there three wishes on your ol' fairy goddaddy-o so's he can git on his way, okay?" The fairy godfather's teeth were big and yellow, like the ponies in the park that sometimes Aunt Buffy would take Sorcha to ride.

Three wishes?

Sorcha screwed up her face and thought hard. Big yellow teeth…

A pony. Nope. She had one. It was hot pink, had glittery spots and came with a comb that went down the disposal.

A new Barbie? Nope - Aunt Buffy once said that Sorcha had more Barbies than there were Slayers. That was a lot of Barbies.

A baby brother… No, no, not one of those. Petunia, one of her playmates from the Slayer Center had a baby brother. All 'Tunie's baby brother did was poop and cry. Borrrrrrrriiiiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggg.

Silly Putty. A great big wad of Silly Putty…

The fairy godfather took a wrench from his tool belt and made the water stop squirting out of the floor where granddad's potty had been. Uncle Spike was leaning against the wall out in the hall and trying to light a cigarette, but the cigarette was all wet and soggy from where the potty water had run out the door. Uncle Clem was sitting down with his ears pulled all tight over his eyes and groaning.

"C'mon baby, make a wish!" The Fairy Godfather looked at his watch. "Union rules sez I can't take more'n ten minutes per stop or they dock me."

Wish. Wish. Wish. Wish.

**7.**

Sorcha was still thinking when Uncle Spike yelled and jumped on the Fairy Godfather. The Fairy Godfather and Uncle Spike were rolling around on the floor among the bits of potty and all the water that came out of it when Sorcha made her first wish.

She pointed at Uncle Spike, who now had the Fairy Godfather sitting on top of him. The Fairy Godfather was hitting Uncle Spike with his wand, so Sorcha said "Puppy!"

"You betcha, sweetness!"

The bent wand made a noise like a bug zapper with a June bug in it.

Uncle Spike was now a little white dog with big googly blue eyes that sort of looked like that dog on _Fraiser_, only not so cute. He gave out a bark that sounded like, "Bloody Hell!" and bit the Fairy Godfather on the behind.

Sorcha thought that this was very, very funny.

The Fairy Godfather kicked Uncle Spike out the door. Uncle Spike bounded back in and started making more holes in the Fairy Godfather's red and white striped tights, "Well then, sweet thang, that there wuz one. What all else you want babygirl - git that damn dawg off'n me!"

Sorcha giggled some more. This was too funny, and she now had a puppy, even if it was goofy looking and had once been one of her favorite uncles.

Uncle Clem stood up, "Oh Spike, now you've done it!"

Sorcha pointed at Clem and said, "Eletahnt." Which was her word for elephant because she still hadn't figured out how say it right just yet.

"That there makes two!"

Uncle Clem didn't have a chance to yell like Uncle Spike did, there was another bug zapper sound and the hall was full of saggy, baggy pink elephant.

**8.**

The hall did not like having an elephant in it.

It let the world know this by suddenly breaking open so that there was now dust and big chunks of wall all over the place.

Then the Uncle Clem elephant grabbed Sorcha in his trunk and tried to run away with her.

He didn't get very far – the doorway got in its way, so the Clem elephant ran through the t.v. room, spilling all the beer and spicy Buffalo wings onto granddad's nice white carpet with the doorway hanging off of his shoulders.

The t.v. fell over, boom, what a big noise! Sorcha laughed and clapped her hands.

Then the Clem elephant ran through the door to the outside and wore that on his shoulders too. The Uncle Spike puppy was not far behind. He was yapping at the Clem elephant's heels.

They ran across Grandad Angel's nice yard and made big holes in the grass.

They ran through Grandad Angel's nice flowerbeds.

They mashed Grandad Angel's favorite car flat in the driveway – crunch-tinkle! The Uncle Spike puppy stopped and peed on all of the flattened tires. Then he ran hard after them.

They went through a hedge, wheeeeeee!

They ran across the Slayer Center's soccer field, knocking over all the benches and making the girls run and scream.

They ran across the parking lot, knocking over cars and scaring Aunt Cordy who had been shopping so that all her pretty bags went flying – pretty panties everywhere!

They stopped when Aunt Buffy came out the door of the Center.

Aunt Buffy was not happy.

Aunt Buffy did not like little yappy dogs and big pink elephants, so Aunt Buffy yelled, "Whoever you are, put down that little girl - right now!"

Uncle Clem put Sorcha down and picked up a rock from the flowerbed with his trunk and scratched "Halp" on the blacktop of the parking lot. Then he stomped it out with his big foot and scratched, "Help!"

Aunt Cordy came up and smacked the Clem elephant on the behind with her pointy shoe, "Whoever you are, you made me drop $500 worth of Victoria's Secret in a puddle."

The Spike puppy yelped and fell over on his back.

Aunt Cordy picked him up, "Ooooh, a puppy! Wait, he doesn't match my furniture. Here Buffy, you take him!" The Spike puppy gave out another shrill yelp and licked Aunt' Cordy's face, whining.

"Cigarette breath, on a dog?" Aunt Cordy dropped the Spike puppy and screamed, "William, is that you? What the hell's going on here??? Who turned my boyfriend into a mutt???"

**9.**

"Guess that'd be me, ma'm." said the fairy godfather who sauntered over to where everybody was screaming at each other, "Name's P. T. Boone - call me Boonie!" He held out a hand to Cordelia that was as big as a phone book.

The Spike puppy tried biting the fairy godfather on the behind again.

The fairy godfather swatted the Spike puppy with his bent wand.

Aunt Cordy said, "Ewwwwww, Old Spice!"

Aunt Buffy said, "Who the hell are you and what are you doing on private property - oh God, I just sounded like my mother!"

Sorcha giggled, things were no longer boooooooooorrrrrrrrrrriiiiiinnnnnnnnnggggg.

**10. **

"Sorcha, this isn't funny." Aunt Buffy said. She turned to the fairy godfather, "I said, who are you and what are you doing on private property and who cares if I just sounded like my mother again!"

The fairy godfather handed Aunt Buffy a dog-eared business card that he took from his wallet that had a long chain on it.

Aunt Buffy took the card and said, "P.T. Boone. Fairy godfather? Licensed? Bonded? U.A.W., A.F.L.C.I.O. since 1985… Fairy's are _union???"_

"Since 1991." Said the fairy godfather. He grinned, showing his big yellow teeth again.

"Fairy's are _union?_" Aunt Buffy repeated as she looked the fairy godfather up and down, frowning at his saggy tights and cowboy boots.

"Yep. Been in the wish business since Corporate closed the Fenton, MO Chrysler plant in '90 – Union got me this here job after unemployment run out – now _git!_" The fairy godfather kicked at the Spike puppy because he was lifting his leg against the fairy godfather's cowboy boots. The Spike puppy went "Grrrrrrr!" and bared his teeth at the fairy godfather.

"Fairys. Are. Union."

"That's right, li'l lady." The fairy godfather drawled. "_Union_."

**11.**

"So what's a pink elephant doing on Center grounds? Somebody call Animal Control, I don't have time for this!" Aunt Buffy pointed at the Clem elephant.

The Clem elephant tried to hide behind Uncle Giles who had come across what was left of the lawn and was now leaning on his cane, breathing hard.

"Buffy, I heard the noise." Uncle Giles said, adding, "I thought it was an earthquake, but instead it's a… pink elephant? He took off his glasses and started polishing them. "Good heavens, is that you, Boonie?"

"You know this guy?" Aunt Buffy looked really mad now. Sorcha leaned against Uncle Clem's big, pinkish leg.

"Yes, we met at the Wizards and Wish-Fulfillment Service Industry Employee's Convention in Garden City, New Jersey last year. How are you Mr. Boone?"

"Couldn't be better, Ripper!" The fairy godfather bellowed, shaking Uncle Gile's hand very hard, "Got a bonus yesterday for… naw, company rules – con-fi-dential you know!"

"Indeed." Giles rescued his hand and waved it at the Clem elephant and then pushed the Spike puppy away from where the Spike puppy was sniffing his shoes with one foot, "Shoo! Wait, you look familiar." He said and eased himself down so he could get a better look at the Spike puppy. "Spike, is that… oh this is too much, William the Bloody, a Fox Terrier of suspicious ancestry???" Uncle Giles started laughing; the Spike puppy tried to bite Uncle Giles.

Uncle Giles swatted him aside with the newspaper that he'd been carrying beneath one arm and stood up again. "P.T., this has you all over it. Who made the wish... dear God, is that Clem?"

"Yessir, that's my work. Meant to turn him into a Rottweiler but there wasn't room in the bathroom what with all that water, to do the job right." The fairy godfather started scratching his back with his wand, "There goes m' bonus!"

"If you did this to my boyfriend," Aunt Cordy got in the fairy godfather's face, "Turn him back or I'll sue."

"What about the elephant?" Aunt Buffy pushed Aunt Cordy aside, "Change Clem back before he… oh dear God, no!"

"Eewwwwwwww!" screamed Aunt Cordy. Uncle Giles looked ill.

This was because the Clem elephant relieved himself loudly upon the pavement – Sorcha jumped up and down clapping. This was better than she ever dreamed it would be.

"Change. Them. Back." Aunt Buffy said from between gritted teeth as the Spike puppy ran over to the steaming mound and began sniffing it.

**12.**

"Ain't how it works, li'l lady." The fairy godfather leaned back on his heels, arms crossed so that the tattoo of a naked lady showed on one hairy bicep, and a burning skull on the other. "Your li'l neice here's only one who can undo it."

"Sorcha? She's only three and a half – you can't hold… can't you override… she's a minor - that's it, I'm calling your supervisor!" Aunt Buffy looked at the fairy godfather's business card while she took her cell phone out of her purse.

Sorcha went over and looked at the mountain of elephant poo. It was the biggest pile of poo she'd ever seen in her life. Maybe Grandad Angel would lend her a camera so that she could show her friends – they wouldn't believe her if she told them.

"Sorcha, get away from that, it's nasty!" Aunt Buffy hollered, then she said into her cell phone, "Hello, this is Ms. Buffy Summers. I need to speak to the supervisor of Wish Granter #423... _Sorcha, don't you dare!_"

**13. **

"You mean the wisher's the only one who can undo it, even if she's only three and a half?"

"I'm afraid so, Buffy – a wish is a wish." Uncle Wesley looked up from one of his big books and shook his head, "You should know this. Didn't your mother ever read you fairy stories when you were a child?"

Aunt Buffy said, "No, mom was afraid that fairy tales would give me nightmares – little did she know!"

"In every fairy story two out of three wishes granted are acted upon, they inevitably prove disasterous. The only way to undo the first two, is to use the third wish to undo them." Uncle Wesley, who had Sorcha on his lap looked at Sorcha, "Isn't that right, Miss?"

Sorcha, who was having a good time because things were no longer booooooorrrrrrrriiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnngggggg! giggled and shrugged. It was nice to have a puppy, even if it was weird looking; and how many girls her age had their own elephant, even if it was pink?

"Sorcha, turn them back." Aunt Buffy looked at her cell phone, "I can't believe they've put me on hold for two hours!"

Sorcha said, "No."

"What?" Aunt Buffy exclaimed, "It was mean to turn Clem and Spike into, into, whatever! I mean, how can Spike smoke when he's a… a… dog?"

"Dunno." Sorcha giggled some more.

"And Clem, how can Clem use his favorite vending machines if he doesn't have any pockets to keep his money in?"

"Dunno." Sorcha jumped down off of Uncle Wesley's lap, ran to the window, and pointed. Outside under the security light, Clem was busy ripping leaves from the Center's trees and stuffing them into his mouth while Aunt Cordelia, who was holding a lit cigarette to the Spike puppy's mouth, watched. "Funny!"

"Indeed." Wesley set the Union manual aside, "And you still can't get a hold of Boone's supervisor?"

"Two hours and counting. Sorcha, why won't you turn them back?" Aunt Buffy asked again."

"NO!" Sorcha yelled, sitting down on the floor with Mehitabel on her lap and crossing her arms.

**14.**

Three days passed, and Sorcha was still having a very good time. The fairy godfather was camping out in the T.V. room eating pork rinds and drinking beer, she had a puppy, she had an elephant, and everybody was asking her to make her third wish.

It was all very exciting, not at all boorrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggggg!

Granddad Angel even came home from one of his mysterious trip. When he saw what the Clem elephant did to his car, it was even less borrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnngggggg! Granddad just stood there in the darkness and moaned.

Then he screamed.

He screamed a lot, it sounded like, "Spiiiiiiiiiiikkkkkeee! I'll stake you for this!!!"

When Aunt Buffy explained about the fairy godfather, the three wishes, what had happened to his nice car, and showed him the Spike puppy and the Clem elephant, Granddad started laughing and said to Sorcha, "Oh coleen, leave Spike as he is, just wish my car back to the way it was."

"What about Clem?" Asked Aunt Buffy. "He's ruining the lawn?


	8. Turquoise: Mermaids

Following his nose, Angel finally found Sorcha sitting in the middle of the huge clump of pampas grass that was slowly overwhelming that corner of the yard in front of the large Painted Lady that had been their home for the last two years.

She was crying.

Angel somehow managed to wedge his bulky frame into the secret green chamber that he'd deliberately included in the garden plans that he'd drawn up for the landscapers two years back and took his grandchild in his arms.

"They wouldn't let me come to the party tonight." Sorcha finally quavered, "Mr. Sappington, the new Director said it was for Slayers and Watchers only, so I couldn't go."

_Great, Buffy's somewhere in the Midwest setting up a new Center; leaving me to deal with the nasty little prig the Watcher's Council sent to run things until she's done. First he tells Lorne that he's no longer needed as the L.A. Center's Music Club Director because demons have no business being around Slayers, and now this!_

"They're all eating cake and I don't get any!" Sorcha wailed somewhere around Angel's collarbone.

_Would it be such a bad thing to let Angelus out for a few minutes to play with Sappington? No, no, remember the last time that happened?_

"And punch, the fizzy pink stuff, I'm not getting any pink punch!"

_It would be easy. So very easy… no! You're better than that. This can be solved with a few phone calls and a little talk._

"And at lunch? Daisy stuck her tongue out at me because she's a Slayer and I'm not."

_Huh?_

"Then she told everybody not to play with me any more or she won't like them!"

Daisy. Bratty, catty, troublesome Daisy. She was Sorcha's age and already ruling the roost. Of course Sappington doted on the nasty little brat.

_This has to be nipped in the bud._

"Then Julie told me at soccer practice that her mother said I couldn't play with her any more."

_Great! I knew letting Sorcha have friends outside the Slayer community was a bad idea, but Buffy insisted! She said it would open doors for Sorcha. I should have put my foot down!_

"Her mommy says I play too rough!" Sorcha started crying even harder.

_Ease back. Getting mad won't solve anything. But what do I tell Sorcha to make it better? Anyway, I can't show up at Julie's mother's house at 2 am and demand that she let my granddaughter play with her daughter. And I can't let Angelus out to break Sappington's neck or set him on fire, or better yet, chase Daisy all over the campus in full vamp face. Damn, damn, better call Buffy after I get Sorcha to bed._

Setting aside the temptation to go on a rampage of vicious Angelus-style mischief, Angel settled for letting Sorcha calm herself down so that eventually the sounds of the night washed around their shared silence until a motorcycle engine growled past in low gear and stuttered to a halt. Wesley and Virginia were back from a wizard's convention in Albequerque; Angel listened to their footsteps, Wesley's wide and heavy, Virginia's small and light, filling in the gaps between her lover's larger stride, as they walked past Sorcha's grass fort towards the house.

After the echoes of the front door closing behind the two lovers died away in the distance, Sorcha blew her nose onto the ground like he'd taught her to, farmer style. ("If _your_ grandchild gets in trouble for blowing boogers on someone, I'm leaving it up to _you_ to explain it to the target and the target's mother." Was all Buffy'd could say in between giggles once she'd got over being grossed out because really, it was funny, watching Sorcha targeting the grasshoppers basking on side of the house with deadly accuracy and then going to find more goldenrod and ragweed to help her "reload".)

Sorcha looked up at Angel in the dim light, her dark eyes huge, and demanded, "Grand-da, if I'm not a Slayer, then _what_ am I?"

_Shit._

Angel knew that eventually she'd ask this question; only he'd hoped it wouldn't be for a long while, which would give him time to come up with a reasonable explanation.

"Good question." Angel said, trying to figure out how to stall his granddaughter long enough so that he could answer her question in a way that would satisfy her. "Good question."

To tell the truth, nobody knew _what_ Sorcha was. Her mother had been a Key – her father the child of two vampires, a fluke that should never have happened. She mingled Connor's demonic strength and speed, which frightened Angel when he let it, with Dawnie's innate pretzel logic and intelligence, and mingled it all with Buffy's stubborn nature. No, wait - that had been Dawnie's way too, only he never got the chance to butt heads with it as he had with Buffy, no thanks to Ethan Rayne and his greed.

Binding it all together was Connor's fey sensitivity and hair trigger temper.

"Gran-da, _what am I?"_

"Ah…" Angel groped around until his mind spat out something he'd read in one of those sappy chicken feet, no chicken _soup_ books, "You're a mermaid!"

Sorcha stared up at him, lower lip pooched out, brows wrinkled. "I don't have a tail like the ones we saw at Christmas."

_Leave it to Sorcha to remember our little trip to Baja last Christmas when I took her to see the mermaids!_

"Ah, well, there are many kinds of mermaids."

"Oh." Was all she said before demanding, "Which kind am I?"

_Well, I started it, oh God, where, how… yeah, right:_ "Ahhhhh, once upon a time there was a king who loved games. He told his subjects, who were dragons and unicorns, to line up in the meadow, dragons here, unicorns there. The dragons and unicorns were excited because the king always made up the best games."

"Really?" Sorcha sounded skeptical. She'd met a few kings and hadn't been impressed.

"Really." He replied, groping for what to say next. "But… but when the dragons went to one side of the meadow, and the unicorns went to the other, there was somebody crying in the middle of the meadow, all alone."

"Boo hoo?"

"Boo hoo. And the king saw it was a mermaid, so he went over to her and asked, "Why are you crying?"

Sorcha interrupted, "Grand-dad, this is a dumb story. Mermaids don't live in meadows, they live in Baja!"

"She was on vacation. They do that."

"If she was on vacation, why wasn't she at Disneyland?"

Angel paused. Uh oh, this was one of Sorcha's "Dawnie" moments that needed careful answering or he was in big trouble. "Ahhhh, Disneyland was closed for repairs that day because the teacup ride was broken."

"Oh." Was all Sorcha said, and nodded against his chest, "So, why was she crying?"

_Whew! _"She was crying because the king had said that the unicorns had to be on one side and the dragons on the other, and because she was a mermaid, she didn't know what side she belonged on."

"Are you fibbin' me, grand-da?"

"Just _listen_ to the story, will you Sorcha?"

"'k" She snuggled against him and Angel tried to make the next part make sense to a seven year old.

"Because he was reallyreallyreally wise for a king not like Mr. Sappington (Sorcha stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes.), the king said, "You're not a dragon, you're not a unicorn. You're a mermaid. Choose which side you want to be on, it's up to you." So the mermaid played on one side of the meadow with the dragons, and after a while she went to the unicorn side and played with them…"

"Gran-da, " Sorcha interrupted, "What game did they all play?"

"Who? Oh the dragons, unicorns and the mermaid, uhhhhh… they played volleyball and everybody had a good time."

"That's dumb, the unicorn's horn would pop the ball."

"All right. You win, they played soccer."

Sorcha giggled at the image of unicorns and dragons playing soccer and Angel rushed in with the finale to avoid any more questions, "That's why you're a mermaid, you're something new and wonderful. I'm a mermaid too."

"How come?" Again, that look of stubborn contemplation.

"Because I have a soul and people like me aren't supposed to have souls."

Sorcha looked up at Angel suspiciously, "Uncle Spike, is he a mermaid too?"

_You got me there, kiddo,_ "Uh, in his own way."

"Nobody likes Uncle Spike, much, but he's still a mermaid. O.K., is Aunt Cordy?"

"Ah, unicorn."

"Because sometimes unicorns like mermaids?"

Angel nodded, reluctantly.

"Uncle Wesley? Aunt Virginia?"

"Mermaids."

"Uncle Giles?"

"A mermaid in a tweed jacket."

Sorcha giggled, "Uncle Clem? Aunt Willow? Aunt Buffy? Uncle Xander?"

"Mermaids, and a one-eyed dragon with a bad attitude."

"Clem would make a funny-looking mermaid, he's all wrinkly like a walrus!"

"Mmmmmm."

"Boring Aunt Harmony and her great big boring hair?"

"A mermaid with who collects unicorns."

"Oh. Uncle Lorne?"

"With that voice? Definitely a mermaid!"

"Mr. Sappington?"

"Dragon. With bad breath."

Sorcha giggled and then asked, "What about Aunt Faith?"

"A mermaid with a potty mouth."

Sorcha giggled even harder, "That's funny, and Daddy?"

"Mermaid."

"What about Julie at soccer practice?"

"Unicorn."

"Daisy?"

_Shit_. Angel was afraid that she'd mention the holy terror of Fledgling Dorm. "Mermaid." He stated firmly.

Sorcha was quiet for such a long time that Angel thought she'd fallen asleep. He started when she said at last, "Grand-da, if you an' me an' daddy an' all the other's are mermaids, how come some of us fight with some of the other mermaids all the time like you and Uncle Spike and me an' Daisy?"

_Shit._ "Because," Angel said cautiously, "Not all mermaids get along. It's just the way things are."

"Oh."

"And," Angel added, "Just because you are a mermaid, it doesn't mean that you can't be friends with dragons and unicorns. Not all dragons are alike, and not all unicorns are alike. Some don't like mermaids, and some of them like mermaids a whole big bunch and can't wait to play with them."

"Really?" Skepticism filled his granddaughter's voice.

"Really."

Sorcha yawned.

"And now it's time for a mermaid to go to bed."

"Don't wanna. I like it out here in the dark with you, I'm a not-noct.."

"Nocturnal."

"Nocturnal mermaid."

"Aunt Buffy won't like it if I keep you up all night." Angel said. "And yes, she's a mermaid, too."

"'k."

Angel let his granddaughter crawl down the long pampas grass tunnel ahead of him.

"I'm tired, grand-da." Sorcha said as he pulled himself to his feet, "Can I ride your shoulders like I did when I was a little kid last Christmas and you took me to see the mermaids?"

"Why not?" Angel easily swing Sorcha's small body up and onto his shoulders as he strode across the dew-damp lawn towards the big Victorian house letting her use his hands as stirrups; relieved that his clumsy metaphor appeared to have worked. But was his grandchild really a mermaid or something entirely new and different that the world had never seen before?

But for now, mermaid would have to do.


	9. Magenta: Limburger Cheese

The worst thing about trying to be part of the soddin' normal world, Spike decided as he lounged bored on one of the splintery benches scattered among the dusty plastic plants in front of the Motherhood shop which Cordy'd just waddled into, was the soddin' normal world.

Take malls f'instance – Cordy's natural element. Malls used to be buffets with amusing seasonally rotated decor before all the business with the chip and the soul started – go in, make your choice off the menu, have at it, get out; nothin to i... "'alllllooooooooo, wha's this?"

Spike, arms spread wide along the back of the bench and legs taking up the rest, stared down his nose at the toddler of indeterminate gender wearing nothing but a soggy diaper and a drool-stained NASCAR t-shirt now staring up him, one finger slid up one nostril to the first knuckle, the other grubby paw clutching a sticky neon rainbow sucker which looked like it had been snagged used off the ground in the car park, judging by all the filth clinging to it

Bloody hell, first every maternity shop in the entire soddin' mall and now some disgustin' little bon-bon...no, we don't call 'em _that_ any more, do we, me old son?

"...ummmm, sod off?"

Open-mouthed with dried snot the color of the sucker crusting its upper lip, the toddler continued staring up at him with dull eyes - not like Sorks had been at that age; Sorks' eyes had a disturbing, predatory gleam to them from birth. This kid looked thick as two short planks... Spike took the fag he'd stashed behind one ear out one-handedly and began fiddling with it, licking his lips. Thick or not, who'd notice one less... bloody Hell, but he needed a smoke but since Cordy went and had herself knocked up he'd quit after she'd nagged him enough; it'd been a rough six months

Spike swallowed _hard_, eyes locked with the human larva's; free hand sliding unnoticed into his duster pocket where it began sifting through the random collection of dead cell phones, lock picks, crumpled parking tickets, and hang on a mo'... they closed around the comfortingly cold steel of his lighter – only to drop it mid-light-up when a passing mall cop cleared her throat while nodding at a nearby No Smoking sign... _bloody Hell!_

Scowling, Spike snapped, "Sod off!!!" at the kid who still stared at him. The rainbow sucker was now in its mouth, random debris and all. Spike began to sweat. "I said, _sod off!"_

Nervously Spike took the fag from his mouth, the tip of his tongue showing slightly– the brat stank, but it'd be like... it'd be like... it'd be like Limburger cheese. Once you got past the stench...

Spike leaned down into his tormentor's face, snarling, "Oi, mouth-breather; yer mum's lookin' for you!" He tossed his head in the direction of a butt-hatted wide load in ratty Juicy sweats two sizes two small pushing an empty stroller arguing with a clerk over the clearance price of a tiny thong at the Victoria's Secret across the concourse from Motherhood, _"Hoof it!"_

The toddler reached up, clamping down hard on Spikes nose with the sticky hand that had been mining for gold.

Spikes lips peeled back, revealing long yellowed fangs as his brow ridges thickened and his nails elongated into claws. The toddler continued staring at him open-mouthed with flat shoe-button eyes and a snot bubble on its nose... he reached for it, when... _Whap!_

Cordy stood in front of him, shopping bags on one arm, Prada handbag raised for another blow, _"William, I cant take you anywhere!_" She grabbed Spikes arm and began dragging him towards the nearest exit, "If you get us _banned_ from this mall like you did _the last two..."_

"Yes, dear." Relieved, Spike took a quick look over his shoulder, face relaxing back into something more human. The toddler plomped down squishily onto its dirty diaper and was now watching their hasty retreat with open-mouthed dull interest, sucker now tangled in its hair.

God, that was close.


	10. Goldenrod: Noctourne With Fireflies

It's another hot evening in July —a time when heat lightning tears at the encircling horizon as the Ozark Mountains rise gently about you in oak carpeted splendor; making you feel like you're being surrounded by a herd of gigantic but benign sleeping animals in the hazy blue twilight. As you lazily slap at the mosquitoes that are ignoring the nearby bug zapper, it feels like you, your family, and your friends —are the only people left in the world. You like it this way. For a few precious hours, a few short-lived days, you can forget that you're a Slayer and ignore the outside world where family and friends are all too quickly stolen from you by time, distance and death. 

You've worked hard for the last six months, supervising the setting up of this isolated little training outpost of the Watcher's Council in an old resort camp that dates back from the 1920s, with its charming little log cabins, huge communal dining hall, and nearby spring fed rivers —right off of what was once Route 66. The Watchers deliberately chose this place because the land's cheap and far enough away from civilization so that there's not too many people around to ask questions, but close enough to an International Airport should you need one.

It's delicious, sitting quietly in one of the locally made straight backed rocking chairs on the front porch of the dining hall, a bottle of beer in one hand, half-hypnotized by the fireflies as they begin rising one by one out of the grass of the big common area in a glittering slow motion sex dance while Angel, Spike and Sorcha, your six year old niece play her favorite game where just this morning you watched a doe and her twin spotted fawns ghost out of the edge of the dense woods that surround the place to graze on the freshly mowed lawn as the river mist slowly vanished with the rising sun.

The game is a simple one that Angel, but more likely Spike made up because he can't sit still for long, invented when Sorcha and her father stayed with Angel at the L.A. Slayer Center so that she could go to a better school than the dismally cash strapped ones around here.

Sorcha calls it "Kidball".

You call it, "Oh God, I can't look!"

"Kidball", is really kinda funny once you got over your fright the first time you saw them play. What it is is simply what appears to be two grown men tossing a six-year old back and forth like a football as she shrieks and giggles, demanding that they do it faster, higher, and harder until she nearly throws up from all the excitement.

That time Connor joined in, making the game even more unpredictable; diving and rolling, keeping his only child from hitting the ground at the last possible second; leaving huge gouges in the lawn wherever the two of them landed, which pissed off the groundskeepers at the L.A. Center to no end the next morning.

Tonight as you watch, Angel lobs Sorcha at Spike like a grenade from thirty feet. Spike catches her around the waist, leaping five feet up into the air with effortless grace. This is one of those rare times when both vampires can cooperate at something without squabbling. Spike lands in a half-crouch, hair flying out in all directions —Cordelia has somehow convinced him to stop ruining his hair with peroxide. It's now a soft golden brown that spills down to his shoulders in a mass of loose curls that have once more escaped the tail that he now keeps it in. He looks like a dandelion gone to seed. Sorcha is laughing, unhurt and Spike grunts as he launches her with a little spin back at his Angel.

Angel catches Sorcha, dropping to his knees in the grass, tickling her until she squeals at him to stop or "I'll pee! I'll pee!"

It's nice to be so far out where Sorcha, where you, where a lot of your friends and family can be themselves, without drawing any unwanted attention. Dawn's child really does try to behave but her demon heritage keeps popping out in all directions so that accidentally smashing cherished toys and sending her little "normal" friends crying whenever she forgets her own strength is now the inevitable. To be able to roughhouse, to run, to shriek, to giggle, to play tag, to wrestle uninhibited...

...is bliss for the both of you. You'd seen the last landscaper off two days ago before calling everyone up, inviting them to come play, a free vacation as it were, before the girls come, overrunning the place with their high-speed antics, demonic group PMS, and noise. It was astonishing to see how many of them came; Angel arriving at sundown the same day in a rented SUV with Sorcha and Connor in tow, with a smelly anti-sunlight charm in the back seat and all the windows rolled down. Connor brought a fishing pole, his first, and wanted to learn how to use it because one of the L.A. Center janitors told him that's what people do on vacations.

They fish.

With a pole.

Convincing Connor not to eat his first still flopping catch raw right there on the bank in front of everybody had been a challenge. It was almost as disturbing as seeing first Angel and then Spike surruptitiously drink the blood that was draining out of the packages of raw hamburger and steaks in the fridge today before lunch, both thinking that nobody was looking.

Angel stands up in a single fluid motion, flinging Sorcha back at Spike. The six year old stretches out like Supergirl in her favorite comic book —posing against the rising moon, her grubby t-shirt flapping in her own jet wash. Spike catches her, grabbing her by the seat of her cutoffs, spinning twice before launching her backwards at Angel in a hammer thrower's move.

Spike and Cordelia showed up 2 a.m. the next morning loudly arguing over whose fault it was. Spike had ditched Angel, Connor and Sorcha back at Lambert International Airport after quarreling with Angel over the shared cost of the rented propane fueled SUV and whose turn it was to sit in the back seat next to Willow's stinky anti-sunlight charm. Angel hated it when Spike drove, he drove like a madman and they had Cordy and Sorcha to consider. Spike got pissy because Angel insulted his driving, and that he couldn't be trusted to not wreck the sodding dinosaurmobile with a woman and child aboard. He then sniped that Angel drove like an old man. Angel countered that Connor didn't mind sitting next to the reeking basket, so what was the problem? Spike yelled back that Connor grew up in a demon dimension where there were ten thousand things that smelled far, far worse, so why couldn't Angel sit back there with Connor and the charm and let _him_ drive? When Angel finally bellowed at Spike to shut the hell up and get in the back seat with Connor, Spike had snarled, "Fine, I'll bloody well rent me own car and cover the fucking windows with duct tape and Hefty bags before I sit next to that bloody charm. Me and our Cordy will get there first, sod-you-Peaches!"

With an eye-roll, Cordy told you over breakfast that Spike had immediately gotten them lost in the maze of highways and construction bypasses that surround St. Louis like a tangled nest of serpents, and refused to stop and ask for directions. After three hours of this, she'd angrily ordered Spike into the back of their grubby little rented Dodge Colt with her ten large matching designer suitcases before she took over the driving, getting them onto the Interstate in a matter of minutes because of the two of them, she was the only one who could read a map.

Cordelia, now eight months pregnant, dozes beside you on a chaise lounge, legs sprawled out in front of her, reeking of insect repellant.

_Now there's a shock. Cordelia risking her figure to have a baby? Whodda thunk?_

When Harmony somehow convinced her billionaire husband that she wanted babies, lots of babies because that's what married people did, he'd seen to it that she got all the Rumanian, African, and Asian orphans she could ever want. She has yet to succumb to instinct and eat them —Cordelia, never one to be left behind, has decided that it's time to have a baby of her own.

Cordelia's decision hurt Spike more deeply than you ever thought possible once he realized that she wanted the one thing that he could never give her; so he tried to talk her out of it. Finally Cordelia loudly told him right in front of everyone at Sorcha's sixth birthday party that if Spike didn't like it, he could go to Hell for all she cared —they weren't married, he couldn't tell her what to do, it was her body, yadda yadda yadda. That night she'd packed up all her clothes, make-up and shoes and moved in with Harmony and her husband David, vowing to never come back.

Spike sulked for a week before he showed up in Angel's living room and cried, actually cried! on your shoulder. He then went on to wrap his DeSoto around a tree, going headfirst through the windshield somewhere down in Laurel Canyon after drinking himself half blind. He had been carrying the fake I.D. that Wolfram and Hart had generated for him in his wallet, so the authorities had contacted you and Angel as the next of kin at 2 a.m. after they scraped his body out of the twisted remains of his car and forwarded it to the county morgue; otherwise, you never would have known where he was. It had taken fast footwork on the part of Wolfram and Hart to gloss things over after he sat up screaming in the middle of a post mortem at the County Morgue. It had taken even faster footwork to get Spike released to your custody from a County Coroner who didn't want a lawsuit on her hands. He then spent a miserable month on painkillers in their shared bungalow at the back of the L.A. Watcher's complex with Cordy fussing over him while she picked broken windshield out of his scalp piece by piece by piece with tweezers. Cordy'd come into their shared bedroom as you and Angel tried to make him comfortable in the splints that were keeping his back and legs from healing crooked and said, "You've both done enough. Stupid as he is, Spike's _my_ responsibility." before closing the door in your faces. You and Angel had leaned against the the wall, water glasses shamelessly pressed tightly to the plaster, openmouthed at what you heard.

After that Cordy'd made a point of finding an anonymous donor who looked as much like Spike as possible —which surprised you almost as much as her tenderness in looking after Captain Peroxide as his body repaired itself.

_Queen C. actually loving someone enough to take care of them? Again, whodda thunk?_

This afternoon after lunch you found the two of them napping through the day's heat in the room next to you and Angel's; Spike's head resting against Cordy's ever swelling middle, one pale arm draped protectivly over her. Her arms were around his narrow shoulders as the ceiling fan hummed lazily overhead and the gauze curtains blew around the windows in slow motion billows. Despite their non-stop bickering, maybe they really do love each other

Angel has now decided to treat Sorcha like a football, thundering across the Center's July-dry front lawn, with Spike easily keeping up, the two of them passing Angel's only grandchild back and forth, weaving 'round the flower beds, dodging the birdbath and the elaborate rock gardens, vaulting a split rail fence, and crashing through a hedge before leaping over Virginia and Wesley's little vintage Volkswagen beetle.

Those two have been out on a month long motoring tour of the Midwest (Wesley's idea, not Virginia's) before she gets too pregnant to enjoy the ride. They were at Cahokia Mounds across the Mississippi River in Illinois when you contacted them on Virginia's cell phone. They arrived right after Angel, Sorcha and Connor.

Virginia had been another surprise — without warning, the tiny wizard's daughter showed up on Wesley's doorstep one week before Christmas two years ago with a bottle of wine in one hand and a suitcase full of spellbooks and black silk nighties in the other. You'd always thought Wesley was a prat, but around Virginia, he was a different person. Virginia, once she got to know you better, confided to you that she'd given up on trying to lead a normal life, finding that life as a mage among "mundanes" just wasn't worth it and that Wesley was one of the only men she'd ever met who could accept her as she was.

You kinda sorta like Virginia. She would have made one hell of a Slayer. She and Wesley are getting ready to drive into town to get more ice and another case of beer. Virginia yells as Spike and Sorcha sail over her head without warning, before sending a sizzling blue ball of St. Elmos' Fire after them, hollering at them not to do it again.

Spike's now up on the split shake shingle roof of the big cabin that houses the main office building. Sorcha's scrambling up the drainpipe to join him. Angel's not far behind, his bulk's caused the gutter to collapse, spilling him into the cedar bushes around the foundation. Both Sorcha and Spike aren't helping — you have to admit, seeing your lover thrashing around in the cedars while the his grandchild and Childe pelt him with egg sized green burr oak acorns is hysterical. You take a pull at the beer, enjoying the coolness as it washes down your throat.

Xander and Willow are trying to get the big fieldstone bar-b-cue pit to cooperate. They arrived today after lunch in a literal puff of smoke in a coat closet with their clothes on backwards.

Kennedy's gone for good and those two are billing and cooing. They've been billing and cooing for three years now, four? Five? Xander's getting fat, construction worker fat with a big beer belly but muscular arms and legs. Willow's gone white with no trace of the red hair that you remember her for. Both don't seem to mind, though. Xander's starting to look like his father, complete with a bald spot in the back that he tries to conceal with a ball cap when he's not executing a combover which fools nobody but him.

Yesterday Spike convinced Sorcha to make a smiley face on Xander's bald spot with one of your favorite lipsticks while Xander was nodding over a fishing pole down at the crystalline Jack's Fork River that meanders along the bottom of the big Complex lawn.

_Some things never change._

Xander swears and jumps back when the bar-b-cue bursts into a ball of flame. As usual, Willow got impatient and tossed in a few "Fiat Luxes".

_What was that I just said?_

Angel is now chasing Spike, who has Sorcha heaved over one shoulder like a sack of giggling potatoes, along the narrow ridge of the Administration building's roof. Spike's about five strides ahead and Angel's fast losing ground. With one hand Spike grabs a tree branch, using it to launch himself and Sorcha off the roof, into the air, and to the ground with Angel landing heavily behind.

Sorcha's laughing so hard that she's going hoarse. Earlier today you went swimming with her and her father in the river. There were dark, shady places along the stream where the trees met and the limestone cliffs rose high enough into the air to block out most of the sun so Angel joined you, nervously watching the sky, a tarp within easy grabbing distance. After Connor took Sorcha into the woods to look for blackberries, you and Angel found a deep overhanging ledge along the bank and made long, slow love in the clear cold water, a stake within easy reach as the sun beat down and the cicadas strummed and thrummed in the grass. Connor blushed visibly beneath his sunburn when he met the two of you later, but he didn't say anything. Sorcha's mouth was purple and she had to lie down for a while with a blackberry stomach ache.

There were still enough berries left over in Connor's hat for Giles, whom you drove up to St. Louis after lunch this afternoon to fetch from Lambert, to make a small cobbler. It's now cooling on the picnic table over by the now roaring bar-b-cue pit as he supervises Willow and Xander.

Sorcha's now showing both vampires how to catch the fireflies which are now rising thick and fast from the dew-slick grass. She's decorated Angel with glow worms so that he now looks like a man shaped Christmas tree —of course Spike's making the most of it. Cordy gets up out of her lawn chair and languidly stretches before padding barefoot over to join them. Spike puts his arm 'round Cordy's waist giving her a quick snog while Sorcha pretends to gag.

Lorne has joined Faith and Connor on the nearby Clematis vine draped glider. He and Faith showed up at right after Angel, loaded down with gifts for everyone and a karaoke machine complete with camping songs and Barry Manilow tunes, looking like the the entire cast of _Ocean's Eleven_ on summer vacation while Faith was downright scandalous as usual in a pair of Daisy Dukes and a halter top that left nothing to the imagination. This morning you came down to breakfast in the big echoing dining hall and found Sorcha sitting on Lorne's lap, contentedly painting his horns hot pink with the nail polish that came with the little makeup kit he'd given her as Faith drank her first cup of the day while trying to convince Connor to take her caving. Faith now has her own Hellmouth and a small team of younger Slayers to contend with in Boston and wants Connor to come live with her.

Sorcha's abandoned her two playmates and has now joined Connor, Lorne, and Faith on the glider. She's climbing all over her father like a monkey, excitedly chattering about what a good time she's having as she tries to braid his lank hair.

_Oh god, why can't it always be like this?_

You dread the day when you have to explain to Sorcha that not everybody has an uncle and a grandfather that drink blood from a coffee cup, who will never grow old and die barring an ugly staking accident, or a playmate that has red eyes and green skin and who can shatter glass with one high pitched shriek.

So you finish your beer, surrounded by the warm darkness and the voices of your family and friends, savoring Sorcha's innocence while you can.


	11. Pine Green: A Really Big Zuchinni

_Author's Note: Please forgive Sorcha's spelling or mangling of the word zucchini - she's only eight and for some reason, zucchini and also banana are hard for her to spell. Luckily for all of us, there are no bananas involved in this story._

My Big Zuke, Zuch, Zack... Squash  
By Sorcha Angel, age 8, Miss Vandegort's Class

One day Uncle Giles gave me some seeds and a little shovel because I was bugging him and he wanted me to go and play somewhere else. He said, "Here Sorcha, go out to the garden and plant these if you won't go and play with Willie Jr."

Willie Jr. is Aunt Cordy's little boy, but he's boring all he does is drool, poop and cry.

I said, "O.K." Then I dug a hole in the garden and put the seeds into the ground like Uncle Giles said to.

Then Aunt Buffy said, "What are you doing Sorcha?" So I said, "I am planting seeds because Uncle Giles is tired of me bugging him and I don't want to play with Aunt Cordy's little boy because all he does is poop and cry and drool so Uncle Giles gave these seeds to me and said go plant them."

Aunt Buffy picked up the packet and she said, "Dear God, not more zuke, zuch, zack,_ squash!_"

And then we went inside and had dinner.

I fogot all about the zuke, zuch, zack, squash seeds and then they came up all over the place with little baby zuke, zuch, zack, squash plants and it was really cool.

The zuke, zuch, zack, squash plants grew long long all over and Aunt Buffy said, "Giles, what sort of seeds are these really? Are they some sort of demon vine?"

And Uncle Giles said, "No, Buffy, they're just vegetable marrows, what you Americans call zuke, zuch, zack, squash. They always grow like that."

Then they started to have little baby zuke, zuch, zack, squash all over and I got to pick the zuke zuch zack squash and after a while everybody said, "Ugh! Zuke, zuch, zack, _squash!_"

Aunt Cordy said, "I know zuke, zuch, zack, squash isn't fattening, but can't somebody go out and pull up the vines or something?"

This made me cry because I love my zuke, zuch, zack, squash plants! They are cute!

I cried and cried so Grandpa Angel said I didn't have to pull up my zuke, zuch, zack, squash vines. This made me stop crying.

Then Uncle Spike showed me the newspaper and said, "Hey, pet, they're givin' a hundred dollars to the person what can grow the biggest zuke, zuch, zack, squash. Wanna take a whack at it?"

I said, "Is a hundred dollars a lot of money?"

Uncle Spike said, "It's a lot of fags and beer, pet."

I said, "More than a million dollars?"

Uncle Spike said, "A lot less, but a hundred smacks is a hundred smacks." (Uncle Spike talks funny a lot.)

A hundred dollars? Wow!

So Uncle Spike and I asked Uncle Giles how to make a really big zuke, zuch, zack, squash.

Uncle Giles said, "Why on earth would you want to do that?"

Uncle Spike said, "No business of yours, mate! Just thought the platelet here might stop feedin' you lot with so much zuke zuch zack squash if she had a goal."

Uncle Giles said, "Oh very well, but I don't like it." Then he handed Uncle Spike a big book named Rodale's Guide to Vegetables and said, "Don't get the book wet or set it on fire."

First we picked all the zuke, zuch, zack, squash but one and watered the vines a lot. Then Uncle Spike put something called manure on the ground around the plants from a big bag with a shovel. Grandpa Angel said, "Hope you didn't pay any money forthat manure, Sorcha, should have let your Uncle Spike stand around and talk – all sorts of manure falls out of his mouth for free."

Uncle Spike threw manure at Grandpa Angel.

Grandpa Angel ducked. Then he laughed.

Aunt Cordy said, "Wiliam, don't you dare track that stuff all over my nice clean rugs!"

Then the zuke, zuch, zack, squash got big.

It got bigger.

Uncle Giles looked at it and said, "You just might win a prize."

Oh boy, a hundred dollars!

Then it got bigger.

It got big as me.

Aunt Buffy said, "Are you _sure_ this isn't some sort of demon?"

It got bigger.

Daddy said, "Do we have to eat this thing if she loses the contest?"

"No Connor," said Uncle Wesley, "It will be all nasty and tough if I know my vegetable marrows – don't worry."

It got even bigger!

Finally it got so big that Aunt Buffy said, "I want that thing out of here, it will roll over and hurt somebody!"

Uncle Spike and me picked the big zuke, zuch, zack, squash – he used an axe to chop it off the vine. Then we put it in a wheelbarrow and took it to Grandpa Angel's bathroom and put it on the scale.

It weighed sixty pounds. Wow!

Uncle Spike said, "That hundred bucks is mine, I mean, _ours_, platelet! We have the world's biggest zuke, zuch, zack, squash!"

Then we put it on Grandpa Angel's kitchen table and the table made a funny noise.

Uncle Spike went and borrowed a camera from Aunt Cordy and he took a picture of me standing next to it. (Miss Vandegort, I put the picture on the next page.)

Then he said, "Nine o'clock, Sorks, time for bed."

I only whined a little, but I went to bed anyway after he told me that tomorrow he would have Aunt Cordy call the people who were giving a hundred dollars for the biggest zuke, zuch, zack, squash so they could come over tomorrow night and give us our hundred bucks. Wow!

The next day after school I couldn't find our big zuke, zuch, zack, squash – but Uncle Clem who had come to visit was cooking something on Grandpa Angel's stove, he was using all the pans and they were full of hothothot oil that burns little girls to bits if they touch it.

There were big round things all over the place and they smelled good.

Uncle Clem said, "Hello darling, have some fried squash, those big ones fry up wonderful!" He gave me the catsup and a big golden fried thing.

It was good.

Sorcha ate a lot of it.

Uncle Spike came in and said, "Clem, where'd that big zuke, zuch, zack, squash go?"

Uncle Clem said, "Oh, that, it was too big for a stir fry, they get tough, so I'm frying it and making bread with the rest."

"You bloody well did what?" Uncle Spike yelled, "The zuke, zuch, zack, squash people are at the front door and you fried… BLOODY HELL!"

Uh oh, Uncle Clem fried our big zuke, zuch, zack, squash? I would have cried but my mouth was full and it's rude to cry with your mouth full.

"Well," said Uncle Clem, "If you didn't want me to fry that beauty, you shouldn't have left it on the kitchen table right next to the stove, here, have some zuke, zuch, zack, squash bread, it's right out of the oven."

The bread was good.

We all ate the bread, and we ate the fried zuke, zuch, zack, squash too, even the people who will give you a hundred bucks for the biggest zuke zuch zack squash. Uncle Spike was mad, but he showed them the picture anyway and they gave him a bag of manure to try again and he said that the fried zuke, zuch, zack, squash was almost as good as a blooming onion, whatever that is and that next time we would try for a hundred pounds and guard the thing with a shotgun until the sodding judges get there to give him his, no, _our_ money.

And that is the story of my really really big zuke, zuch, zack, squash.

The end.


	12. Lilac: Powder Room

"No, I'm not doing it Peaches. She's your granddaughter, you do it."

"Spike, you put a dent in the car. You owe me, you do it."

"I had a reason, I'm not doing it. Have Connor do it, he's her father."

"Hey!"

"Granddad, I gotta peeeeeeeeee!" Sorcha started dancing. All three men looked at the little girl and resumed arguing in front of the mall ladies room.

"Buffy said not to let her out of our sight."

"This doesn't count, it's a lavvy."

"I don't want her out of my sight either. Connor, take your daughter into the men's room."

"Ewwwww, that's the BOY's potty, I'm a girl!" Sorcha continued dancing.

Angel looked down at his granddaughter, his face hardening, "Spike, you go into the ladies room with her. You used to take care of Drusilla, what's the problem?"

"Not that. No, I'm not going in there, that's her old man's job." Spike gave Connor a shove in the direction of the women's bathroom.

From Sorcha: "Gotta peeeeeeeeee!" Dance dance dance.

"I can't go in there, they'll kill me. That's what Faith says."

"Look, kid, you grew up in Quor Toth wrestling with things with bigger fangs than me and Peaches combined before you were even potty trained. What's so soddin' dangerous about a women's lavvy?" Spike turned on Connor.

Connor looked uncomfortable, "There are _women_ in there."

"_Bloody hell!"_ Spike slapped Connor on the back of the head. Angel slapped Spike on the back of the head.

"Oooooooooooooohhhhhh!" Wailed Sorcha, clutching at herself.

"Just hold on a little longer?" Angel pleaded with his granddaughter before he turned back to the two younger men in the party, "I'm the oldest one here. I'm saying that one of you go in there with her."

"Sod off." Spike settled his duster and put an unlit cigarette once in his mouth. "I'm not going in there."

"Aaaaaaaaa, I can't wait!" Sorcha started dancing again.

"Can't we ask some lady to take her in? How about that one with the baby?" Connor pointed at a woman as she walked past. She gave them all a suspicious look and sped up.

"How do we know that one's all right? She might be something that eats kids in bathrooms out trawling for a meal!"

"Spike, that's stupid… no, hadn't thought of that! Baby, can't you hold it until we get home?" Angel pleaded with Sorcha.

"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" wailed the little girl. "I'm gonna wet my pants!"

"Oh God, now what?" Connor said, "Hold on, you can do it."

"Nooooooooooo, I'm gonna wet my pants!" Dance dance dance.

"All right, if one of you won't take her in by himself, we're going to have to take desperate measures.

"Sod off!"

"Remember that dent?"

"Faith says-"

"They're just women!"

"Granddad… uh…. Granddad?"

"Now on the count of three, we're all going in there with her."

"Bloody hell!"

"Shut up Spike, you once said you were in this all the way. Well, this is all the way!"

"Faith said…"

"Connor, this will make a man of your!"

"Granddad… uh…. Granddad?"

"Shhhh, baby, we're going to take you in there so you can…

"Granddad... ummmm, daddy?"

"Spike, stop trying to slither out of this!"

"Uncle Spike?"

"Connor, get back here!"

"Daddy?"

"Open the door Spike, and we'll all go in on the count of three… one…"

"Graddad?"

"Sorcha, hush, two…"

"Granddad!"

"Three!"

"Bloody hell, this is 'orrible, I mean, look, where's the grafitti and the condom machine?

"EEEEEEEEEEE, I'm calling security!"

"Sorry lady."

"Oh God, it's all pink in here and smells like flowers!"

"_Granddad!"_

"Sorcha, hush. Now go into one of the stalls and do - what is it now baby?

"Granddad, I wet my pants."

…

…

…

"Bloody hell!"


	13. Mountain Meadow: Busted!

Spike whirled in the middle of the Slayer Center's soccer field, black leather duster flaring out behind him like a betta's fins and tail, cornered.

He crouched, eyes darting side to side, knowing this might be the end even as he took quick mental inventory of his latest sins and with a minty belch tinged with Bourbon, realized that one particular sin hadn't let him get away with it.

It had started earlier that evening with a little green box (one of many) he'd found on Giles' kitchen table, escalating to two, followed by three, and a freshly opened bottle of Blanton's Single Barrel (the one the old duffer had stashed away in the cabinet over the stove behind the Wheat-A-Bix - like that was any kind of hiding place for an old hand like Spike), followed by five more green boxes, and then he'd started on the brown boxes, the blue boxes, and the light green boxes, followed by the red boxes, and then well, after the second bottle of Blanton's and the red boxes, it'd all become a blur so that by the time things slowed down, Spike was surrounded by empty Girl Scout cookie boxes, two empty bottles of fifty dollar Bourbon rolling around on the linoleum, and a satisfyingly upset stomach.

He'd then calmly walked away, figuring nobody'd notice.

Wrong!

Spike now found himself surrounded by nine angry Fledgling Slayers in blue vests armed with sharpened stakes.

Giles stood off to one side, arms crossed and smirking, the old fart!

"Those weren't yours!" Sorcha brandished her stake up at him.

"Yeah, you didn't order any!" Petunia, one of Sork's best friends chimed in, "Cheapskate!"

"Girls, I can explain-" Spike tried charm, which usually worked, but not on a bunch of outraged six-year-olds, "Hey, watch the leather!" he yelled as he fell over backwards on the lawn behind the school beneath the weight of, yes, nine, count them, nine fledgling Slayers in Daisy Scout uniforms who were busy pummeling and kicking him with all their might, "You ate our cookies, there goes our camping trip, you poopie head!"

Damn Buffy for allowing a Girl Scouting program to be set up in the Slayer Center - "It'll be a nice way to reach out - the girls who participate will love it. We'll just have to be careful when they mingle with other groups."

Bloody hell, what about him???

"Girls, that's enough!" and one by one, in increments of forty pounds or so, Spike's assailants disappeared, to stand sniffling and glaring at Spike as he slowly pulled himself upright, covered in grass, dirt, and little pock marks where the stakes of Sorcha's Daisy Troop had made their presence known.

"Now, is that the Girls Scout way to solve a problem?" Lorne had knelt down among the little girls, dark red horns black in the fluorescent lights that overhung the field.  
"No, troop leader," came the sullen reply.

"That's right, girls." Lorne gave him a borderline-evil smile. "There's always a better way. Now listen." He adjusted his "Daisies Have Attitude" t-shirt and smiled again at Spike as a huddle formed, Giles eventually joining in. Spike tried to sneak away, only Angel, who'd come out of the shadows among the bleachers, blocked him.

Finally the conference was over. Lorne, still smiling, urged Sorcha towards Spike, "Now sweetiekins, cupcake, tell your Uncle Spike what he needs to do to make things right."

"This is bloody stupid!" Spike snarled. "I'm not having any of it!"

"As stupid as eating an entire year's worth of sales of Girl Scout cookies in an evening when you never even bought so much as one box - I bought a hundred, myself." Angel poked Spike in the back, "Am I right?"

"Uhhhh." Spike gave up, sort of.

"Uncle Spike, since you ate five thousand dollars worth of our cookies, the cookies we sold and have to give to our cus cus cus"

"Customers, pussycat, customers!" Lorne corrected Sorcha gently.

"_Customers_, you owe us five thousand dollars or we'll tell Aunt Cordy what you did!!!"

So it's come to that, eh?

Spike looked around him once more, sighed, belched, this time cocoanut caramel, and dug deep into his hip pocket before reluctantly counting out last night's results from the dog track.

He counted it once more, and after another poke in the back from Angel, handed it to Sorcha, who then handed it to Lorne. "You're the grown up, you count it. I can't count the big!"

The entire pack of Daisy Slayers then trooped off, Lorne in their midst like the green epicenter of a blue tornado. Angel melted back into the shadows, smirking.

Whew, that left Spike with a hundred, and Hell, there's still a lot you can do with a hun

"I'll take that!" Giles briskly took what little Spike had left, riffled through the bills, and nodded in satisfaction. "This cover's Blanton's nicely. If you need a receipt, I can have one delivered to you via _Cordelia_."

Now alone in the middle of the Center's soccer field, crickets chirring in the close-mown grass, Spike lit up a fag, took a deep drag, and then belched again, lemonade.

Yeah, it'd been expensive, but worth it. Too bad the old fart'd only had two bottles of Blanton's.

Oh well, there was always next year!


End file.
